Through Fire And Shadow
by Insert Valid Author Name
Summary: Susan Pevensie. The Lost Queen of Narnia. After suffering of a broken heart, she walks away from her fate, abandoning her past, and in turn is left behind by those she loved, her family forever lost to her. But when a Door opens and Susan sacrifices her life to close it, her soul is reforged, but haunted by Shadows. Good thing she has a new Ring for her to use...
1. Prologue

Grief is a terrible thing.

When Susan Pevensie was naught but a girl in her teenage years, she saw her father go off to fight in the Great War. The year was 1939; what he left behind was a family of four children and his wife, and as an eleven year old, Susan didn't quite understand why her father had to go and leave them all behind. It wasn't until a year later, when London began to suffer the German air raids, that she understood what her father was off doing; it wasn't until she heard the air sirens, smelt the fear, felt the explosions around as London was attacked that she understood that her father was a soldier and that they were at war.

It wasn't until then that she realized what it meant to be a caretaker, to be responsible for the life of someone precious to yourself.

Mr. Pevensie returned a decorated soldier from World War II upon concluding a tour of duty, in 1942, but Susan was no longer the eleven year old girl that he'd left behind – instead, he returned to a family of four adults in the bodies of children, a cursed legacy left behind from the Pevensies' adventures in the magical land of Narnia. Physically, Susan was fourteen years old when her father returned, but mentally she was a traumatized young woman who'd been given the world and had it torn away again; she'd gone through adulthood, became a child again, and then afterwards fell in love with a young man who became a King – and then, it was all ripped away from her, in an event that left her as cold as the Witch she and her siblings had defeated in her twelfth year of life. Susan Pevensie, out of the Four Kings and Queens of the Golden Age of Narnia, had been the one to draw the shortest straw, the one to suffer the short end of the stick – she'd been the one to fall in _love_ , gotten to experience life in a way _none_ of her siblings had been able to, and it was all torn away by a bloody _fucking_ Lion who'd stared at her with pained and haunted eyes that knew what she was going through, as if her pain was His own.

And yet, as if He was secretly laughing at her, Lucy and Edmund, her younger siblings, returned to Narnia in 1942. She and Peter were stuck in war-torn England, but there went Lucy and Edmund, along with _bloody_ Eustace Scrubb – _Eustace Clarence Scrubb_ , her _cousin_ , a boy so nasty that he _deserved_ his name! – gallivanting back to Narnia, back to _Caspian_ , her King, the man she'd fallen in love with.

She hadn't known this, of course. Her father, having completed a tour of duty, had returned home on holiday, and had taken her and her mother on a trip to America – he was to receive an award of some sort, a distinction for his service. Peter wasn't able to go – he'd enrolled himself into some early classes for college and was at Professor Kirke's home, studying under his guidance – and her younger siblings were too young to make the trip – something that Susan found ironic – so she was the one that went with their parents to America. The trip over, she'd opened up to her father – obviously she never told him Narnia, but he'd been quick to point out how melancholy and heartbroken she was, and she confessed her feelings for Caspian, confessed that she'd fallen in love, confessed that her heart was in the hands of Caspian Telmarius (a surname she'd thought of on the spot, but wasn't particularly proud of regardless), a young strapping soldier who'd fought his war and won it.

"And where is he now?" her father had asked.

Susan's eyes were as broken as her heart. "Gone," she said. "He is lost to me. He lives, but he is lost to me forever."

Her father had hugged her, and for the first time in years, since before Susan had first set foot in Narnia, before her father had gone to war, she cried. She'd sobbed her heart out, wept her woes away, and when she was done, her father had kissed her brow and said that "Time heals all wounds, even those of Love." She'd nodded, cleaned her face, and hugged him once more, and when she stepped away her face was set in a mask that let none of her turmoil through. It wasn't until many years later that her father realized that that was the last time he would ever see her smile, _truly_ smile.

Susan was healing, yes. She was hurt, yes. She knew that she'd be hurting for a long time afterwards, but Love soothed as much as it hurt, and eventually, her pain would be forgotten, her heart healed anew. Unfortunately, it wasn't given a chance to – upon her return to England, she'd been met with the news of Lucy and Edmund's most recent, and _final_ trip to Narnia, where Lucy – sweet, kind, innocent, _naïve, ignorant_ Lucy – had regaled her with tales of Caspian and an adventure, of Caspian and a trip to the Sea, of Aslan and Aslan's land, of Caspian and a Woman born of a Star, of a Love that blossomed, and of a Love that was forgotten.

It was in that day, that Queen Susan of the Horn, the Gentle, She who was Given to the Radiant Southern Sun, died. And it was in that day, that Susan Pevensie's heart, a fragile, still-healing thing, was shattered.

They'd all seen it happen, but they didn't understand what had just occurred. Over the next few months, her brothers and Lucy began to experience a new Susan, a Susan that was cold and unfeeling, bitter and beautiful, until one day, nearly a year later, when her siblings had been speaking about Narnia, she'd snapped.

Because how could her _pain_ be so _real_ if the cause of it was _nonexistent?_

"Oh, _please_ ," she'd said. "Are you still playing those childish games? I would've thought that you'd all grown out of that phase by now!"

All three of her siblings had been shocked into silence, and Susan felt relief in that moment, relief that she could reason away her pain, relief because it was all a _game_ , a silly, _stupid_ game that had been shared by all four of them in order to cope with the War. Because really, how could a silly _game_ hurt her? How could such _nonsense_ be the source of her pain? If Narnia was a game, then therefore, so was Caspian; ergo, her pain was _imagined,_ and thus _didn't exist_.

Because none of it did. There was no Deep Magic, there was no Talking Lion, there was no King, and there certainly was no Queen Susan. Only a child's dream, and a child's heartbreak.

Grief is a terrible thing.

That had been the first of many fights between her and the rest of the Pevensie family. It had been the first blow in their relationship, the first swing at the chains holding them together, and over the years, reality had set in, and Queen Susan was no more, and Susan Pevensie, the socialite, the beauty of London, had emerged. A Susan that played no games, that wanted to be beautiful, and _wanted_ , but didn't want to feel the emotions that came with wanting. A Susan whose heart was as cold as ice and as unfeeling as stone. A Susan who'd become so estranged from her family in her views and ways, that in 1945, upon the termination of the war, had moved out of her family home and into a house that was shared between her many friends – friends that changed bed-warming company almost every night, and that encouraged Susan to do the same.

She never did, however. A small mercy, considering the lengths that she'd gone through in order to alienate herself from her family. Even with so-called friends insisting on her changing her way of life, the Pevensie instead threw herself into her studies, absorbing book after book and discovering a hidden desire for healing. It was with this recently discovered passion that she found herself enrolling in a local hospital to study nursing, while waiting tables in order to pay for her schooling.

Life was good for Susan Pevensie. Or, at least as good as it looked to be. Indeed, Susan had even met a strapping young man at the hospital – blonde hair, blue eyes, a charming, roguish smile that set her cheeks aflame. He was older than her by almost ten years, a doctor by trade, earning his final supervised practices under a family friend; he would return to his home in New York upon completing his examinations. He'd implied that he was willing to take her with him, and giddy in her excitement – not _love_ , such a thing didn't even exist! No, not love, but a fancy, one with an opportunity nonetheless – she'd accepted.

It was then, a month later, in June of 1946, Susan was visited by an old woman she'd only heard of in stories, but never actually met.

"I'm a grown woman!" Susan had snarled to her unwelcome visitor. "I can make my _own_ decisions, and I'll thank _you_ for staying out of them!"

Polly Plummer had shaken her head twice. "For as much as you claim to be a grown woman, I wished you _would_ grow up," she'd said. "You're wasting all your school time wanting to be a certain age, and when you get there you'll waste the rest of your life wanting to stay at that age. Your family misses you, Susan, and they worry for you-"

"Children, the lot of them! They can mind their own business, and play their little games as long as they like, as long as they keep me out of them!"

It was then that Polly had frowned, the change in countenance and expression severe enough that Susan immediately knew she'd crossed some sort of line. "You may run from your past as much as you like, Susan Pevensie," Polly had said, "but there will come a time that you'll wish you'd spent more time with your family than you did with your parties and your invitations. There will come a time where you'll wish that you hadn't spent so long in the silliest part of your life, wasting the rest of it away." Polly had then stood up, and the change in her person was such that Susan had stumbled away and found herself slumping into a seat. "Remember, Susan: Once a King or Queen of Narnia, _always_ a King or Queen of Narnia."

The words sent a horrible chill down Susan's spine, a chill of fear and horror so strong that the girl couldn't repress the visible shiver through her body, and as such was unable to formulate an answer. Polly had picked up her hat, bid her good day, and taken her leave after that. Susan had spent nearly an hour stuck in her chair, her breath labored as if she'd run a marathon, until she was able to regain her control and was able to stand up without wobbling.

"Poppycosh," said Susan. "They've roped her in to their little games. Ha! _Narnia!_ As _if!_ "

Once more reassured, she'd shaken her head, and went about her business, pushing the meeting with Polly Plummer out of her mind. Little did she know, however, that it would be the last time Susan would ever see the woman alive.

In 1946, Susan Pevensie had followed through with her plans of walking away from her _silly_ siblings and had travelled once more to America, settling in busy New York as she studied to be a nurse. She'd left with her paramour, the strapping young doctor, and had settled in quite nicely in his home in Manhattan. There, she'd lived a life of high society – parties left and right, men grasping at her hands like she was a forbidden fruit. And who could blame them, chasing after this dark-haired beauty, with skin pale as snow, blue eyes like ice, and a heart to go with it? How could they not be enchanted by her looks, her grace, her plump lips that with lipstick red drew the eye and made her own pop?

One year later, she'd secured a job as a successful nurse. A month after that, she'd moved out of her paramour's home and into her own, and remained a socialite. It was a difficult balance, but Susan rose to the challenge, and so there she remained, living life at its most luxurious, dropping hints and drawing gazes, reveling in the attention yet succumbing to none of it.

And then, it all came crashing down.

1949\. The train. The wreck. Everyone. Peter. Edmund. Lucy. Her parents. Professor Kirke and Missus Plummer. Even Eustace Scrubb and Jill Pole, whose bodies were never found. All of them dead. In April of 1949, Susan Pevensie attended the funerals of her entire family, travelling from New York to London in a Boeing B.377 Stratocruiser, a sign of the luxury she could afford; not that it mattered, anyhow. Her family was _dead_ , after all. They were calling it one of the worst accidents of the decade. Collateral damage, the report had said, from the war, from faulty equipment that had seen its years of service and only just failed.

Nine coffins lowered into the ground, two of them empty. Five bearing the name Pevensie. Those were the ones that mattered most. She'd been selfish during the funeral, ignoring her aunt Alberta and her husband Harold, Eustace's parents. She didn't even say a word to Jill Pole's parents. All she cared about was those five tombstones, and the bodies that lay below the earth, rotting away and turning into dust.

Grief is a terrible thing.

She'd stayed for a month. Sleep evaded her, her waking dreams haunting her as she drifted from room to room in her childhood home, the house that her family had lived in before their untimely deaths. She'd inherited everything – the house, the accounts, all of it. Professor Kirke and Missus Plummer had had their own children, but Susan never shared her grief with any of them, and neither did they with her.

They knew who she was. She knew what they thought. She heard their whispers. She never cared. Blue eyes became lifeless, pale skin became like alabaster, the contrast made starker by the black-colored clothing she constantly wore. Healthy limbs became rail thin, black hair lost its shine. The Pevensie Ghost, they called her. Beautiful, yet as cold as an empty heart.

April turned into May, and Susan had managed to push herself into taking care of things. After shoving her grief into a deep corner of her mind, she'd put the house up for sale. Transferring the money from her parents' accounts into her own, she donated everything from her siblings to the coffers of the local orphanage – something that she knew they would've appreciated. Then, after choosing some personal keepsakes for herself, she signed over the house to the new owners, and returned to New York.

She had little to no recollection of what she'd done in April, her memories a disoriented mess of flashed and tears and screams and sobs. The pain of having her family ripped away so suddenly was as fresh as it had ever been, an old familiar pain that had haunted her from her teenage years but that now had new scars to occupy resurfacing once more. And yet, once in her Manhattan apartment, life went on – she would wake, bathe, dress herself, and head to work at the nearest hospital, before returning home, falling in bed and having a good cry about her missing family, only to fall asleep and awaken the next day, not ready to repeat the same cycle but having no choice nonetheless.

Life went on. Her heart, beaten and scarred, broken and shattered, kept on going, but Susan was no longer the woman filled with life that she'd once been. She was a pale imitation, a shadow of the husky angel she'd been, and when she heard the people around comment about it behind her back all she could think of was how she couldn't remember when had been the last time she'd spoken to one of her siblings – _any_ of them – and that the last time she'd spoken to her parents she'd traded angry words and insults and that Missus Plummer had been _right_ and she _hated_ it.

She wanted to give up.

She wanted to die.

And it was so that on June 20th of 1949, Susan Pevensie collapsed her apartment, clutching a family picture of Peter, Edmund, Lucy and herself, taken at Professor Kirke's holiday home where they'd first had their family adventure. Susan had been holding it with both hands, staring at the picture until tears blurred her vision, sobs racked her chest, and her hands gripped the frame so tightly that the glass broke, with cracks running through her face on the picture yet leaving her siblings' untouched. It was then that her pain was let loose, and she fell to her knees. Tears fell freely, and her lips opened, her voice passing through with a whisper intended for her own ears only.

"I'm s-so alone… so alone in this dark. I- I wish… I wish I could have… one chance…" Susan sobbed, clutching the picture to her chest. "One chance… not t-to see them, or to speak with them, b-but rather, to _redeem_ myself. One chance… that's all I ask for…

"One chance."

A beat of silence.

" _Please_."

… **ooOoo…**

And then, miraculously – something _answered._ For in a Tower of Metal and Stone, in a World far beyond this one, a Wizard held up a staff, and in the Speech of Morgoth himself, said a single word that tore through the Barrier of Worlds:

" _ **Molva!"**_

In Shadow and Fire, a tear was formed from shadows and darkness. With its creation, came the angry and enraged screech of a Servant of Mordor, its body used as a sacrifice to power such a Rift. The Wizard grinned, his eyes alight with dark power, as he raised his staff one more time and chanted:

" _ **Mausan servanav lat ayh, mausan servanav lat ukhall nauk-main!"**_

 _My Servant you are, my Servant you shall remain._

The Demon screeched and howled in its fury, its body unrestrained but unable to touch the Wizard, unable to move forwards and show this arrogant _filth_ what _treason meant for the Servants of Sauron-!_

The Wizard slammed his staff into the stonework of the Tower, and the Demon's body was slowly sucked into the Rift as the Wizard chanted his final line:

" _ **Venavure foravh; agh sundog avhe tok!"**_

 _Venture forth, and conquer the land._

With one last howl of rage, the Wraith was sucked completely into the Rift, and Saruman, the Wizard Of Many Colors, laughed in victory.


	2. 1: Death To The Queen

**Welcome to Through Fire And Shadow.**

 **Edited by candlelit-parisian-nights**

… **ooOoo…**

 _Through Fire and Shadow_

Chapter 1 – Death to the Queen

"Come _on_ , get your ass movin'! You're holding up the line-!"

"I ain't the one holding us up, it's this guy right here-"

"Excuse me, ma'am."

Susan Pevensie looked up from where her gaze was riveted on the stone floor in front of her. The gentleman – a police officer – that had stopped her recoiled slightly upon seeing her face. And it was no surprise, of course; Susan knew how she looked, what with her face drawn out and pale as a ghost.

"Yes, Officer?" she asked, her voice as soft and melodious as always – a contrast with her appearance.

The police officer blinked once and after a moment seemed to remember why he stopped her to begin with. "This way is blocked, ma'am," he said. "This particular station's been shut do'n, somethin' to do with the rails."

Susan frowned, her eyebrows making a delicate and smooth motion across a beautiful yet tragic face. "I see," she said, her British accent drawing a surprised raised eyebrow from the officer. "And is this setback temporary? I am in a bit of a hurry. I can't imagine I'm the only person to be displaced by this."

The officer shrugged. "I can't really say for sure," he answered. "You can try the other subway line, but I think this could be fixed sometime within the next few hours."

Susan glanced at the subway tunnel in front of her, and then at the line of passengers that were filing away upon hearing the news she was receiving from other officers. They were all heading back into the main terminal, perhaps in hopes of finding another train to take them to their destination, or even to find something to eat or drink. The result was that the platform had emptied out remarkably, though the chamber still echoed loudly with the voices of passerby and the sounds of their footsteps.

After a moment of thought, Susan turned back to the officer. "Thank you for your time, officer," she said. "I can spare the time to wait."

The officer, in response, tipped his cap at her. "Ma'am," he said, and Susan left, her black dress following the motion like a cloak. The officer kept looking at her, his gaze drawn and hooked to the sad yet beautiful woman.

"Tragic, ain't it?"

The officer looked at the station worker that had stepped up next to him. "Sorry?"

"Tragic," repeated the man, speaking in a heavy southern accent. "That beauty right there lost 'er whole family. Parents, siblings, cousins… train accident, in England." The worker shook his head. "Fudged-up business. 'S no surprise that the Brits could make a fuck-up like that. Damn Brits."

The police officer looked at the retreating young woman, even as she vanished into the hectic crowd that formed Grand Central Terminal. "She loses her whole family like that in a train, and she still rides 'em?" he asked.

The worker shrugged. "I don't know what goes through her pretty little head," he said. "I just admire the goods from afar-"

"Hey, Jameson! Get back tah work, these rails ain't gonna fix themselves! "

The officer glanced at Jameson, who chuckled and adjusted the hat on his head. "Best get going," he said as he started to walk away. "Don't worry yourself over that girl. She's as cold as ice. An Ice Queen.

"Perhaps even _the_ Ice Queen of New York."

Elsewhere, Susan was making her way through the station, people giving her passage and generally staying out of her way. She didn't know why it was, nor did she care – perhaps her beauty, perhaps her demeanor, perhaps her reputation – but right now she was glad for it. Before her family- before, she loved it, as she felt that it was an acknowledgement that she was more important than those giving way to her; now, she just appreciated it as one would appreciate a tool, as it meant that nobody would be getting in her way. That nobody would touch her, or bump into her.

People only ended up dying around her, after all.

It was strange, she decided. Life is filled with so many distractions, but they all lost their meaning the moment her existence became a canvas of greys and blacks and whites. Life is filled with color, but one does not know what they have, what they are surrounded with, until it is lost. Out of the corner of her eyes, in the far corner of the station, Susan saw a teenage girl arguing with her parents. She could not hear the words being exchanged, but she could make an educated guess as to what the argument was about. A desire to walk over, shake the girl silly, tell her to not waste time with her parents and family burned in her, but the ice in her heart quenched the fire and she moved on. _Let the girl learn on her own_ , she thought. _There would be no point in the lesson anyway_.

She moved on. Eventually, she found a small café to wait in, taking a seat at a table and waving down a waitress. At the next table, a lone mother tended to her child, a babe dressed in girl's clothing. After sparing a rare, soft smile for the babe, Susan turned her attention to the waitress and ordered a cup of tea.

As the waitress walked away, Susan looked over at the mother and her baby. "How old is she?" asked Susan.

The mother looked up with a smile. "Fourteen months old," she said with pride, "and 18 pounds."

"She looks very healthy," agreed Susan, her inner nurse assessing the babe's skin tone and weight at a glance. "What's her name?"

"Lucinda," said the mother. Her eyes were back on the sleeping girl, so she missed Susan's wince of pain. "She's all I have. All I need in this world."

"She is precious," said Susan, her pain at old wounds buried once more. "You're very lucky."

The mother beamed, and returned to fussing over her child, looking at the sleeping face with an expression of gentle love. Unable to continue watching, Susan tore her eyes away, preferring to look back at the crowds.

"What about you?"

Susan started, looking back at the mother. "I'm sorry?" she asked.

"No children of your own?"

Susan shook her head. "No," she said. "I haven't found a man worthy enough."

"Too right. There aren't many good ones anymore," said the mother. "I'm lucky I found my John. Luckier still that he returned from the war."

Susan lost the smile she didn't know she was wearing. "My love returned from his war," she said, thinking about _him_ – a man of gold-brown hair and warm eyes, though his name she chose not to remember. "Unfortunately, he fell in love with another."

The mother gave her a sad expression. "I'm sorry," she said. "He was not worthy of you."

Susan looked out at the crowd. "Sometimes I wondered if _I_ was unworthy of him," she confessed, surprising herself with the admission.

So surprised, in fact, that she very nearly jumped when the mother reached over to take her hand. "Never think that," she said. "I don't know you - and maybe I never will - but no matter who you are, you can _never_ think like that. At least, not without self-improvement in mind. If he forgot you, then he was not worthy of you." She gave Susan's hand a squeeze. "You are a precious soul."

Susan didn't answer, but after a few moments she placed her free hand on top of her new friend's hand. "I thank you," she said. "Your words are meant with a kindness that I am unsure I deserve but feel thankful for nevertheless."

The mother gave her a strange look at the phrasing, but smiled anyways. She opened her mouth - perhaps to ask about Susan's accent? - but whatever it was she was going to say was lost when the whole station began to shake. Susan never found out what she was going to say. In fact, weeks later, when she thought back to the incident that changed her life once more, all that she would be able to recall was the chill that crept up her back. The feeling of _Something Happening_ that reminded her of a trip that her mind ignored, but her heart recalled. It was later that Susan realized that the feeling she'd felt was that of _magic_ , of _gateways and paths_.

But in that moment, all Susan felt was a chill, and the horrible premonition that something awful was about to happen. The screams of fright that had begun had nothing to do with it, nor did the feeling of the earth moving under her feet.

It wasn't until the screams became those of terror, and the air was filled with the stench of death, that Susan identified the feeling of Death walking over her grave, caressing her soul.

… **ooOoo…**

Elsewhere in the station, Jameson the railroad worker was simply doing his job, wielding a pike and flashlight as he walked down the subway tunnel with another companion of his. Together, they hoped to finish up the work quickly in order to reopen the subway tunnel as soon as possible.

"So what is it that we're looking for?" asked his friend.

"Not sure," said Jameson. "The train operator said that he felt a bump in the rails. Said it was stron' enough that some of the passengers jumped a good foot off their seats."

"A bump? Ya sure it wasn't an earthquake-?"

"Don't be daft, mate, did you feel a quake today? 'Cause I certainly didn't, and I don't think it woulda made the train shake the way the operator said it did."

"Maybe it was a small one…"

The argument was kept up as they continued onwards into the tunnel, taking care to not step on the rails. As they walked, they carefully examined both the rails and sleepers, searching for whatever it was that had caused the disturbance in the tracks. It wasn't until a few minutes later that they stopped.

"George, mate, did ya feel that?" asked Jameson.

George gave him a look. "Feel wha- oi, is somethin' shakin'?"

Immediately, both looked down. Sure enough, the gravel they were standing on had started to shake and vibrate in place.

"Shit, there's a train comin'!" exclaimed George.

"Control made sure the station was closed!" said Jameson. "Besides, it's shaking too much for a train! I think you might've been right with the- _whoa_!"

The earth had begun to shake horribly, sending the two companions off-balance. They grabbed at each other in hopes of preventing their fall, but as the shaking intensified the task became much more difficult. On top of their ailing sense of balance, there was a rumbling sound, akin to that of a giant beast growling.

The cavern continued to rumble, the sound and shaking escalating with every passing moment. There was a terrifying _crack_ \- and the earth itself shuddered, splitting open with a horrible yawning sound. George and Jameson fell to earth, their startled cries turning to horror when the hole began to grow and spread in their direction. The two men tried to crawl away but it was for naught; Jameson blinked - and George was swallowed into the darkness, his scream lost in the roar of the earth. Rails screeched as they were warped and torn, sleepers falling into the pit after the lost man. Jameson's cry of his friend's name was lost in the din. Suddenly as it started, the shaking ended, as if George's untimely death had been the sacrifice necessary to end the catastrophe.

Coughing out the dirt and dust that permeated the air, Jameson fumbled for his flashlight - his pick had been lost in the commotion. Slowly, he crawled to the edge of the newly-formed pit, taking care to not disturb the rock any further.

"George!" he called out, but his voice carried not; there was too much dust, giving the feeling of a slow suffocation. " _George!_ " he yelled once more, but failed to achieve anything. By that point, he had already reached the edge of the pit. He shone the beam of the flashlight, but it was impossible to see anything - as if the darkness was a veil, unable to be pierced by a mere flashlight. It wasn't just dark in the pit - it was as if light had no place in it.

Jameson shuddered, coughing out more dust. He swung the beam left and right, but saw no sign of his companion. Suddenly, he stopped - there was a rustling noise.

"George?" he called once more. "Talk to me mate, are you alright?"

The rustling noise grew in strength. It was a terrible noise - like leather rubbing against itself. Jameson swept the flashlight across the pit again, searching for his friend - only to freeze when the light landed on something that _should not have been there._

" _Feast on his Flesh._ "

Jameson screamed in terror - the first of many that day. It was cut off almost immediately, to be replaced by a horrible mix of sounds, that of squelching and crunching. Jameson died alone, with no one to hear his scream, his fate the same as George's.

And above the mix of sounds, as whatever beast had consumed the two men pulled itself out of the pit, a voice, the same as before, spoke once more:

" _Search for skies!"_

The beast roared its compliance - and smashed through the ceiling above it, smelling Man-flesh and feasts and destruction.

 **...ooOoo…**

Susan had picked herself up and was in the process of helping her new friend to stand when the floor of the station exploded.

Susan didn't even think about what to do; she immediately shielded the mother's body with her own, ensuring that the babe suffered no harm. Apart from a few small rocks, there was no need to worry; but upon straightening, Susan's eyes were already searching for threats, looking for a target to-

"Oh…"

As it climbed out of the hole that it had created, what Susan noticed first was the sheer _size_ of the beast. It looked like a dragon - dark grey, almost black, leathery skin with an angular head shaped like that of a serpent and a long neck. Two hind legs, and two wings, with talons at each joint of the wings. Scars dotted the beast along its neck and torso, the head of the beast showing the worst of it. The second thing that Susan noticed was the smell - it carried with it a stench of death, of rotting corpses and spilt blood, of screams of terror and agonized yells for loved ones. It was a stench that was _familiar_ to Susan, bringing back memories of a Silver Castle and a Witch-

Susan's mind cast away the memories, focusing on the here and now. For upon the beast, was a humanoid. Dressed in a black cloak that covered a hauberk made of silver mail, face hidden by a menacing helm, they wielded a giant sword in their left hand (a claymore, Susan's terrified mind supplied) and a large mace in their right. The figure's arms, shoulders, and head were armored; the spiked monstrosities gave away the armor's nature, for they were not meant to protect as much as they were to _wound_ and _tear_ at the flesh of any who laid a hand on them. The helm was horned, two spikes coming out of the sides like a bull's horns. The faceplate was open, but revealed no features, only shadows and darkness and promises of death.

The figure looked around as the dragon flared its wings. Susan shivered when its gaze passed over her, but stood firm. Others suffered in their terror, some fainting outright.

" _Such weak prey_."

The voice was like steel nails on a chalkboard. Susan forced back the urge to hold at her ears, for in her soul she felt a terrible agony. She was, however, unable to hold back a visible flinch.

This being was of Darkness. And to Susan's battered yet bright soul, there was no greater anathema.

" _A world of Men. You will make unworthy sacrifices. But my Fellbeast must feast, and so you will suffice._ "

The dragon roared, and people screamed. With a snarl, its head reached out to the closest person and simply _gobbled_ them up, crunching at bones and flesh alike, blood squirting out in a parody of a waterfall. The movement was so quick that Susan's eyes were barely able to follow the horrid creature.

Immediately, people began to flee and panic. Susan dared not turn away from the Fellbeast. "My friend," she said, her voice showing none of the fear she felt, "Take your child. Flee. Get outside, and find shelter."

A glance behind her showed that the mother had already gathered up her child. At Susan's encouraging nod, the woman ran away, the babe's screams lost in the cacophony of the station. Susan, for her part, began to move against the crowds, searching for those who in their fear would freeze and not seek shelter.

It is amazing, what a terrible situation can do for the mind. Some will find that their minds will become filled with conflictions of fear and terror. Others find that their minds become crystal-clear. Susan's was of the latter - whereas the people surrounding her let themselves be led by their terror, Susan's mind was like a knife cutting through a current, her thoughts razor-sharp. It was a quality that had been favorable to her as a nurse, and just as much when she was a Queen-

 _Not now_.

If not now, then when?

 _Not ever._

There is magic in the air. You cannot deny this.

 _There is no such thing as magic._ Susan encouraged a couple to stand up from where they'd huddled in the shadow of a pillar, pointing them to the nearest exit.

You are looking at the evidence of it. That creature is not of this world.

Susan glanced at the Fellbeast, and felt a chill when she failed to see the Rider. _No,_ she agreed, _it is not._

A body was sent flying towards the Fellbeast. Susan looked towards where it came from and paled; the Rider was carving a path between the panicking bystanders, its massive mace swinging left and right and sending innocents to their deaths. The claymore was not ignored, the blade flashing out and killing people with nonchalant swings. The tiles surrounding it were slick with blood, and Susan felt helpless.

But she had to do _something_. Her siblings would've charged in, with no regards to their own safety, for it was _Susan_ who held them back, always concerned-

 _Not now._

The young woman drew herself in. The police would take care of this, she rationalized. There was no need for her interference-

"S-stop right there, in the name of the Law- _urk!_ "

Susan's eyes closed. She didn't need them to know that the policeman's body would fall headless to the ground.

 _Peter would've charged in. Right behind Lucy. She'd_ lead _the charge. Edmund would've sighed, then drawn his blade without hesitation, right behind his siblings. And I would've been at the back, covering them with arrows._

Susan's eyes opened. There was magic in the air. But now was not the time to immerse herself in memories. Now was the time for _action_.

Out of the corner of her eye, Susan saw an open case - perhaps that of a passenger, dropped in their haste? - and inside it, a weapon. She didn't even think about it, not of the implications (how? Why? What kind of person carries a compound bow in _New York…_?), grabbing it out of its case and stringing it. Her hands flew through motions they hadn't forgotten, and before long she'd drawn back an arrow from the quiver on her back and aimed it at the figure.

 _Twang!_

Her aim was off. The arrow soared over the being's shoulder, who paused in the action of raising its mace.

" _Who dares to come between the Nazgûl and his prey?"_

Lowering the bow, Susan stood straight and proud. "I do," she called out. "Face me!"

The being obeyed, and Susan felt the fear in her heart grow. It stood taller than any man, and was all the more terrifying for it. Its robes were wet with blood, but the black armor was stained with blood of victims past. The mace it wielded had a head as big as the wheel of a train, with flanges running down all the sides of the round head. The claymore was of black steel, and droplets of blood ran all along its surface. This was not a creature of mercy. This was a Servant of Darkness, one who revelled in the agony and suffering of those who fell by its hand.

The being - the Nazgûl - hissed as it took in a breath. " _You smell of light,_ " it snarled. " _Of filthy light and great power. You do not belong in this world._ "

Susan could not withhold the wince at the pain those words caused. _Not now._ "If I am not of this world, then you belong here even less. Go back to the shadows from whence you came!"

The being laughed. " _Foolish mortal. You have not the power to command_ _ **me**_ _! I am Khamûl of the Black Legion, servant of Sauron!"_

Susan's eyes narrowed in a glare. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Fellbeast take wing and break out of the station through the ceiling - it was free in New York. _Not now_. Susan couldn't afford to think about the people, the poor victims to the massacre that was about to occur-

Khamûl _moved_. In an instant, he was almost in front of her, his mace swinging to end her, and Susan had no time to jump back. She threw herself back, barely ducking the blow, but had no time to breathe, forced to crawl away as Khamûl brought back the weapon for another swing. She picked up another arrow on the way, drawing it quickly and loosing it, striking Khamûl in the shoulder. While the creature screeched in rage, Susan quickly gathered up the quiver of arrows - and ran.

Or tried to. She ended up slipping in the blood, falling back to the ground. A glance revealed that Khamûl had torn out the arrow and thrown it away, his steps measured as he approached her. Idly, Susan noticed that the arrow was _melting_ where it landed, smoke coming off of it as it slowly disintegrated.

Susan drew another arrow and fired it from her position; this time, the Nazgûl merely swiped the arrow in midair with its sword. The next arrow found its mark in its chest, but it was ignored. By now, Khamûl had reached her, drawing back his mace to crush her once and for all-

 _Bang! Bang!_

Whatever world the Nazgûl had come from, it didn't have guns. Two police officers had, upon arriving, pulled out their service pistols and opened fire, drawing enraged shrieks from the horned demon. Distracted, it turned away from Susan, who quickly picked herself up off the ground. She gasped, her body shaking from the close brush with death, her legs taking her away from the demon. She needed to get away, she wasn't meant for front-line battle, she'd been an _archer_ for As-!

 _Bang! Bang! Click._

Somehow, the click of an empty chamber was louder than the gunshots themselves. The first policeman screamed as Khamûl tore him to literal pieces with his blade. Susan saw this with broken eyes - another soul lost because of her. Because of her inaction. She shook her head quickly, pulling out another arrow and firing it - it _pinged_ off of the Nazgûl's armor. The result was that Khamûl snarled and threw something at her, catching her chest and sending her tumbling onto the ground.

Stunned, Susan tried to move, only to gasp in pain. Opening her eyes - when had she closed them? - revealed the answer to her plight. Khamûl had thrown his _sword_ at her, and it had cut a vicious line over her chest. For whatever reason it hadn't bisected her; she chalked it up to the throw being born out of frustration more than anything else, ignoring the voice of Oreius the centaur saying that swords were not meant to be thrown. Still, the wound meant that she would no longer be able to use the bow effectively. She was now truly weaponless.

Her eyes landed on the massive sword that belonged to the enemy. She'd remembered archery - perhaps she'd never forgotten it to begin with. Now she prayed that her swordsmanship had not suffered.

But why should she continue to fight? There was no point. Khamûl would kill her and then the rest of the innocents in the station. It was inevitable. There was no hope. She was wounded now, she was _useless_. She couldn't fire the bow anymore, and she'd never been a swordswoman to begin with. Winded and confused, she abandoned her attempts at picking herself up.

 _Oh, child. There is always hope._

Susan stilled. That voice…

 _Your faith is broken. But it is the actions we take in the face of adversity that define who we are. Once a Queen of Narnia…_

"...always a Queen of Narnia."

Susan closed her eyes, a small smile on her lips. _Thank you, Aslan. I'm sorry for forgetting._

She received no verbal answer, but felt a small breeze cross over her face. When she opened her eyes, she stared up at the broken ceiling of Grand Central Station. Through it, she could hear screams of terror, gunshots, and the roars of an angry beast. _There are people dying_ , she reminded herself. _You are a Queen. It is your_ duty _to rise! To defend them!_

Susan the Gentle. The moniker that Aslan had chosen for her mocked her now. Gentleness had no place in this battle. Susan grimaced, slowly gathering herself with deep, measured breaths. She acknowledged the pain of her wound, but she did not let it dominate her mind. Her experienced eye took note of the scar that it would leave behind but did not care. It was not life-threatening; she could deal with it later. Unfortunately, her earlier assessment was true, in that she could no longer be as effective an archer as she once was.

As such, she abandoned the quiver; the bow had been lost when the Nazgûl had thrown his sword at her. Instead, she stood up, taking care to not lose her balance. When she felt steady again, she kneeled to pick up the abandoned sword, grimacing at the weight. The claymore was much heavier than anything she'd ever wielded in her life - weapons like these were used by the Centaurs of Narnia.

Yet… Susan placed her right hand just under the crossguard, her left hand near the pommel, and _lifted._ Immediately, the weight became more balanced, her arms taking the weight and channeling it to her core. Susan grimaced at the stab of pain this caused. Her eyes took in the sword; elegant in its simplicity, black steel made up the double-edged blade, the forward-angled crossguard made out of a heavier metal. The hilt was wrapped in black leather, and the pommel had flanges all around it.

An experimental swing had her repositioning her feet. A second swing had her frown. _It is not a blade meant for my hands,_ she thought, _but it will have to do._ Indeed, it was meant for perhaps a small giant of a man, the sword measuring perhaps fifty to sixty inches in length from the pommel to the tip of the blade. It would take great strength to ensure that her swings would not be uncontrolled.

Nodding in satisfaction, Susan searched for her enemy. Cursing her inattention when she could not see him, she took a deep breath. Ignoring her pain, she followed the trail of bodies that the Nazgûl had left behind, starting with the two police officers that had inadvertently saved her life earlier. She paused upon seeing the corpses; the first had been beheaded and disarmed, literally, whilst the second seemed as though his chest had been caved in. Susan inclined her head to the fallen men.

 _Aslan, grant their souls passage to the next life._

She looked around. The area she was standing in was deserted, the rubble accompanied by the corpses of the innocents. She could hear screams of terror coming from a nearby passage, which lead deeper into the station, towards one of the underground platforms. Susan followed it towards her enemy, swearing vengeance for the dead.

Down the tunnel she went. The yellow electric lights flickered, illuminating her path and the victims of Khamûl's rampage. Fortunately, there were not so many down here, but enough to give concern. Carrying the sword with the blade pointing behind her, she took care to not bang or nick the blade with either the stonework or the bodies, the former to avoid detection and the latter out of respect to the dead. Deeper she went, climbing down a flight of stairs and arriving at the platform.

It was here where she saw her enemy. Khamûl was languishly approaching a group of civilians that were cowering against the far wall, next to an open train tunnel. The Nazgûl stopped his approach, as if sensing that Susan had stepped onto the platform. He turned around, facing her.

" _Your power is surprising, mortal,_ " said the Nazgûl. " _I will enjoy ripping the head off your shoulders. Your blood will make a fine offering._ "

"Come and try, beast," answered Susan, lifting the sword and placing the flat of the blade on her right shoulder. "This blade against your mace. My power against yours. These innocents are not a part of our quarrel. Test yourself against me, but be warned - you will be found lacking!"

Behind Khamûl, the trapped group of people stared at her with wide eyes. Susan imagined the sight she must've presented, her black dress ripped and stained with dirt and blood and a claymore resting on her shoulder. The garment was barely holding together after the massive tear it had suffered; even now it showed her wound, going from her left clavicle in a straight line between her breasts and ending just below her sternum.

Khamûl threw his head back and laughed. " _You seek to end me, mortal? I am banished from death! I am a Ringwraith! Your death is all but assured. And I will be its deliverance._ "

"All this talk," said Susan, walking forwards, "but it is you who has yet to move. Do you fear me?"

Khamûl snarled. He leaned forwards, and Susan was reminded of their first encounter, where he somehow closed a distance of over thirty feet between them in less than a second. She instinctively swung the claymore, the blade humming as it travelled in an arc-

 _CLANG!_

The impact of the blade catching against Khamûl's mace sent a jarring motion through Susan's body. There was no time to think, however, as the impact knocked her off balance, forcing her to take a step back; Khamûl was not unaffected, the Nazgûl having had to use both his hand to block her attack. Susan pressed forwards, lifting the sword over her head and bringing the blade down, the momentum of the sword assisted by its weight and her strength. As the sword fell towards her enemy, there was a split-second where Susan looked into the shadows visible between the slits of Khamûl's helm.

Her enemy was surprised. And this enraged him.

Which is why Susan was not surprised when Khamûl was suddenly _not there_. Susan managed to halt the motion of the sword, sending a lance of agony through her torso as her muscles pulled on her wound. Instead, she spun around, her left hand still on the hilt while her right grabbed the naked blade for support. And not a moment too soon, for Khamûl's mace was caught perfectly by her action. The parry successful, Susan pushed against the mace, whilst simultaneously using the blade's length to catch Khamûl in his armored shoulder.

The tip of the blade cut through the armor like a hot knife through butter. Khamûl roared his pain, but Susan did not give him the respite he seeked. Instead, she raised her right leg and _kicked_ at Khamûl's chest (Susan thanked whatever deities watched over her, for she never wore heels but preferred boots over all else), opening the fiend's guard. Swinging the sword, this time in the opposite direction she struck again, this time leading with the pommel and hitting him on the armored helm.

She attempted another attack, this time hoping for more damage by using the blade, but Khamûl was ready for her, blocking her attack with the handle of his mace. The two retreated, Susan using the backlash to transition back into a guarded stance, the blade held protectively in front of her chest. This time, it was Khamûl who went on the offensive, swinging at her head from her left. Susan stepped back from the blow, anticipating the comeback swing and stepping away from that one as well.

The mace's heavy head combined with the Nazgûl's wide swings forced Susan to either lightly block Khamûl's blows, or avoid them altogether. If the so-called Ringwraith was using a sword she would have perished already, but as it was she thanked her lack of armor, for it meant that she could be light on her feet. It didn't mean that she was not taking damage, what with all the debris scratching her and making her flinch every so often.

After a minute or so of endless back-and-forth, with neither one gaining the advantage, Susan noticed something about her opponent. Monstrous strength or no, each swing of Khamûl's mace was barely controlled, opening the Nazgûl's guard at the beginning of each attack. Idly dodging another swing, Susan wondered at the timing required to take advantage of such an opening, but knew that it would be impossible with the weapon she wielded. Had she another weapon of less weight, perhaps, she would've been able to capitalize the small window of time.

Suddenly, a memory. When the Pevensies were nearing the height of their power, they'd turned their attentions to the Giants of the North, who'd been encroaching on their borders for centuries. It'd been Peter who'd ultimately declared war on the Ettin Giants, marshaling the army and beating back the giant humanoids. Upon his return, Peter had brought back glory and stories, including one about how he had gone toe-to-giant-toe with a Giant with no reinforcements. Back then, Susan had been quick to reprimand his foolishness, but Peter had brushed off her concern, even going on to reenact his battle with the giant.

It was this reenactment that Susan drew knowledge from. And so, she bided her time. She had only one opportunity to surprise the Ringwraith; she swore she would make the best of it.

Susan took a step back, baiting Khamûl into following her. The Nazgûl, thinking her retreat was a sign of his victory, pressed the attack, swinging his mace to and fro. Susan's eyes were on the mace, following the swings… the mace coming in from her right, opening Khamûl's guard… then from the left, leaving her facing his shoulder- Susan's eyes glanced down, his feet were positioned for another swing, once more from her right-

 _Now._

She stepped forwards while simultaneously letting the blade of the sword fall behind her, both hands on the hilt. Khamûl laughed and swung again, aiming for her chest - exactly as she planned. She spun to the left, the claymore's blade protecting her back as the mace clipped the blade, pushing her forwards and slightly off-balance. She followed through with the momentum of her spin, swinging the claymore with both hands, facing Khamûl once more and swinging straight into his chest.

 _This_ was how Peter defeated a foe whose strength severely outmatched his. By spinning in the same direction of the incoming blow, he'd both dodged the giant's attack and put himself in the position to strike perfectly at the now-opened guard of his foe. Of course, he'd had the luxury of protecting himself with the shield on his back, not that it would have mattered against the strength of a giant, but in Susan's case, using the claymore as both a defensive and offensive tool was still very much viable.

The claymore struck true. The force of the blow she'd dealt Khamûl rattled her arms, but it was nothing compared to the roar of furious agony Khamûl released. The wraith had been knocked back completely, his cloak torn and showing the enormous rent that Susan had made in his armor. There was no blood, however, nor flesh to be seen in the hole - only darkness and shadows. Susan spared this little thought, preferring to swing the claymore again, knowing that she could end the fight right then and there-

Mid-swing, Khamûl vanished from sight. The sudden lack of resistance threw Susan off-balance, and she slipped as the claymore's weight brought her down on the platform with a surprised yell. Her instincts screamed at her to move, and she so she rolled to the side. And not a moment too soon - Khamûl's mace smashed the concrete where her head had been not a moment sooner. From her position she kicked at Khamûl, striking him in the knee, which gave her enough time to roll further away to recover. She quickly stood up, realizing only until then that she'd lost her grip on the claymore in her tumble.

"Bollocks," she cursed. She glanced behind her - the scuffle had turned the combatants around, placing her between the civilians and Khamûl. Behind the wraith was the sword, and as the Nazgûl swung his mace with an inarticulate roar of rage, there was no time to think. Susan threw herself forwards, ducking under the blow and rolled behind the Wraith, coming up next to the sword. Rearming herself, she was just in time to raise the blade of the sword from her crouch to block the enraged Wraith's next attack.

The result was that she was sent airborne, but this time she held on to her sword. Unfortunately, she also fell too close to the edge of the platform, which resulted in her actually falling below and onto the tracks, her life flashing by her eyes as she expected to die a grizzly electrified death-

"Oof!"

The feeling of her back impacting wood sleepers and gravel clued her in, but it was the air rushing out of her lungs that confirmed to her that she was alive. Susan glanced to her right and blanched - she'd barely missed landing on the third rail, which was electrified and powered the subway cars. Amidst a second quick glance that proved her sword was not touching the third rail either, Susan could hear her brother Edmund's voice talking about the voltages and high electric current that travelled through the third rail in order to power the subway cars. Taking care to not touch the rail she stood up, backing away from the approaching Nazgûl. The creature stared down at her from its elevated position on the platform; Susan could feel its malevolent gaze scrutinizing her.

" _I see your heart, Susan Pevensie, and it is filled with darkness._ "

At the cold voice, Susan froze. In spite of herself, she stared at the Nazgûl, as if waiting for its next words.

" _Filled with guilt, an eternal shame. Loss accompanies your every breath."_

"You know _nothing!_ " snarled Susan. And yet, as Khamûl took a step forwards, Susan took one back.

" _Your soul is of light, but your heart is filled with darkness. Sweet, sweet darkness… it will be a pleasure to rip it out."_

"You'll not succeed today," vowed Susan. "Even if it takes my life, I will see this day end with your corpse consumed by flame!"

" _You carry the memories of your fallen brothers and sister._ "

"Shut up..."

" _Their mortal flesh, consumed by steel and flame. Their deaths predestined, just as you were destined to_ _ **abandon**_ _them."_

Susan's skin, flushed from the exertion of battle, became blotched with pale spots as the words struck at her like physical blows, forcing her further back step by step.

"Get out of my head," snarled Susan, but with the weakness she felt, the words were less of a demand and more of a plea.

" _To see you now… to see you as you fail to stand… to see your_ _ **weakness**_ _… what would they say?"_

 _Guilty._ Jill and Eustace, taken before their time. _You should've died with the rest of us._

 _Shameful._ Edmund, Just in his Words and Actions. _You are a blemish upon our name._

 _Weak._ Peter, Magnificent in his Glory. _A weak, pale shade of the Queen you once were._

 _A coward._ Oh God, _Lucy_ , Brave and Valiant in her Spirit _. How dare you call yourself a Pevensie? You fled; you fled from us, you fled from Narnia, you fled from_ love _. I'm ashamed to be your sister._

Susan couldn't help it; with a cry, she fell to a knee. The darkness festering within her since the day her family was torn away suddenly felt like a physical weight upon her body. Her arms felt heavy, shadows pulling them to the ground, her sword falling from fingers that no longer had the strength to hold it. Susan wailed, her heart breaking again as the pain of loss tore at her, as if it hadn't abated since the first day.

But it hadn't really, had it? The pain never lessened. She simply never grew strong enough to grow past it. She was _weak_. She was _nothing_. A stain upon the Pevensie name, a _coward_. She was no Queen, she was _less than nothing_ , how dare she even take up arms against the Nazgûl, this conqueror of worlds? How dare she even attempt to get in between him and his prey?

" _You now see,_ " Khamûl whispered to her, standing above her. So far down the abyss of her own making was Susan, that she never noticed his approach. " _You are such a pitiful creature. Weakened by your bonds. There is no beating back the Shadows."_

But Susan wasn't paying attention to him. "E-Ed… Peter… _Lucy_ … I'm so sorry… _I'm so s-s-sorry…!_ " In-between sobs, Susan fell completely to earth, her body slowly shutting down. An observer would've been horrified to see how the shadows around Khamûl and Susan were slowly taking the girl over, like physical beings, searching to consume the girl and draw her into their grasp.

" _Die in shame, mortal,"_ laughed Khamûl. " _You will never see your gods._ "

Aslan.

The Lion.

Kind, gentle eyes looking at her with Love.

A Mane, soft and warm; it invited her to bury her face in it.

But beyond all that-

" _Well, he's Aslan! He's not a_ Tame _Lion!"_

-his _Roar._

Susan's eyes flew open, and she looked up at the surprised Nazgûl with the rage of a Lioness. "My name," she snarled, her hand grabbing her sword, "is Queen Susan of Narnia. And I will not die this day!"

With a Roar from within that flew past her lips and banished the Shadows around her, Susan rose up in a single fluid movement and pulled her sword up with her. She swung the Claymore upwards, knocking away the unstable attack that the Nazgûl had attempted and opening his guard. Keeping with her momentum, she spun around in a perfect circular motion and _slammed_ the sword into Khamûl's chest with the flat of her blade, using it as an impromptu club. Khamûl held his ground, but was nonetheless shoved back a few steps - right onto the electrified third rail of the Subway.

The scream that the Ringwraith emitted as it was electrified was akin to a physical blow. It was a high-pitched keening screech that nearly brought Susan back down to her knees. Instead of that, however, she settled for getting as far away as she could from Khamûl, whose cloak was now on fire from the electricity. Drawing strength from the quickly fleeing vestiges of Aslan's Roar still vibrating within her, she combated the terror that Khamûl's screeching caused and hurried away with shaky steps deeper into the Subway tunnel.

Away from the Nazgûl, yes.

But deeper into shadows.

And, unknowingly, to her death.

Navigating across the sleepers was made more difficult because of the flickering tunnel lights, but she made do. As it was, there were stone walkways on the edges of the tunnel that allowed safe passage, and so it was here where Susan trotted away. Every few steps she would glance back, wary of whenever Khamûl would free himself of the rail; she had no illusions about whether or not he would be able to.

His terrifying screeches echoing behind her, Susan didn't stop. She had to get as far away as possible from the innocent bystanders still on the platform, as she knew that Khamûl would follow her and his rage would be much, much more terrible. Before, there was a sense of arrogance surrounding the Nazgûl, that she was so beneath him that she wasn't worth his full attention and power. Now though, that arrogance would be fed with the full might of his rage, and Susan would be dealt with the full brunt of it. There was no mercy since the beginning; now it was a laughable concept.

The tunnel began to curve as she approached a bend. Behind her, the screeching cut off; the tunnel lights also gave out, some of the bulbs even popping loudly. Immediately Susan turned around, facing the dark with her sword held protectively in front of her, the black steel completely indistinguishable from the darkness surrounding it. Not that it would've helped any - she could barely see the sword she was holding, much less anything beyond a few feet in front of her. Carefully, still holding the sword defensively, she slowly yet hurriedly inched backwards, careful to not fall off of the walkway and onto the gravel. To lose her balance, or worse, fall, would mean death.

As she creeped backwards, straining her ears and eyes for any sign of Khamûl, she began to slowly notice that she was able to see more and more details of her surroundings. Furthermore, the darkness was pushed back, her range of vision encompassing several strides ahead of her. She changed a glance behind her; indeed, there was visible light further down the tunnel, though she could not see the source due to the curve of the tunnel. As the tunnel lightened with her progress, so did her heart with hope, and she began to move down the tunnel faster, at a quick pace.

As she completed the turn of the tunnel, the light brightened even further to the point that she casted a shadow. She turned around fully - and her heart stopped for a split second out of terror. Just in front of her was a pit, and if she'd continued to walk backwards the way she had been, she would've fallen into the pit and to her death. Above the hole in the earth was another one just as large in the ceiling; the source of the light Susan had been unintentionally following. Looking up, she could see the ceiling of Grand Central Station - she was directly under where Khamûl and the Fellbeast had emerged in the middle of the station.

Wide eyes looked down. "By Aslan…" she wondered aloud. "This is where you came from… where you emerged. From shadow and darkness."

Looking down, she could see nothing. Even with the light of the station shining down directly upon it, it had no effect. The ground where Susan was standing sloped down into the pit, stone rubble, broken rails and destroyed sleepers curving into the darkness and then vanishing into a darkness so thick it was a tangible thing. Susan could feel the power that thrummed in the air coming from the pit; and yet, Susan had the impression that its nature was not that of evil - rather, it simply _was_. It reminded her of the old wardrobe that she and her siblings had used to cross over for the first time to Narnia. Its nature was to exist, for it was nothing more than a door. A Gateway to another world.

There was a sudden feeling on the back of her neck. Susan whirled, sword at the ready. With the light behind her, it was impossible to miss a single detail in front of her. Out of the darkness came Khamûl - his robes were singed, smoke still curling off of the Nazgûl's armor. The Last Pevensie narrowed her eyes at her foe - while she'd hoped that the electricity coursing through the third rail would defeat him, she'd known that it would take more than that. The Ringwraith was a magical being - and it would take a very specific circumstance to kill him.

Susan was not a betting woman, but she gambled that a stab through his heart would no doubt end him. Making his head roll was a second good alternative.

Rage coursed through her veins as she remembered the cruel words he'd used against her; she would make him pay for twisting her own mind and tainting her memories. Khamûl raised his mace, pointing the head at her; Susan widened her stance, standing her ground. No words were exchanged - they both knew that this would be the final clash.

Before, Susan had always been on the defensive. This time, she struck first, Claymore against Mace, and the battle started anew. Susan was tiring with every blow, but she could sense that her previous efforts had not been for naught - the Ringwraith was drained, his strikes slower and weaker. This did not make him any less of a challenge; Khamûl was a daunting foe, and it was taking every remembered lesson, every iota of past experience to duel with the Nazgûl. Taking care to not skirt too close to the edge of the Pit, the two enemies fought on. Both were using truly heavy weapons, but Susan had the advantage of range due to the sword's length. She also had more mobility, not being weighed down by armor, but this also made her more vulnerable.

Strike. Dodge. Strike. Parry. Both were trading blows to an fro, neither hitting the other or dealing any actual damage. It was the most equal match they'd had so far; Susan, for all the danger she was in, had never felt more alive.

 _Look at his feet_ , came Edmund's voice. _The feet always lead his blows. The mace requires sure footing; a single misstep means that he slips and falls._

Rage still coursed through her body, but it was joined by something else. Pride had flourished within her, for with every blow and attack she could feel herself becoming the Queen she once was.

 _The armor on his shoulders limits him,_ said Peter in her mind. _He is used to fighting enemies of equal height than him. He defends his upper body and head well - but his legs are left open. Use the range of your sword!_

Susan took this in stride, aiming her next attack at his legs. The tip of her claymore sliced _just so_ into the thinner armor, slowing him. Susan laughed in glee - this was what it meant to be _alive_ , to not feel pain and anguish and only the lust for battle! She was a _Pevensie_ , one of the Four Kings and Queens of the Golden Age of Narnia, and she would defeat this foe!

 _Control your pride,_ said Lucy. _It can be your undoing - but it will also be his. His enemies are not challenges to him; he relies on brute strength and higher stamina to outlast and defeat his opponents. You were trained for more than ten years with the best swordmasters of Narnia - use your knowledge against him!_

Suddenly, an opportunity. Khamûl swung his mace, and when Susan ducked under the swing she simultaneously swung the sword. It struck true, cutting deep into Khamûl's chest, eliciting a screech from the Nazgûl and a smirk from Susan. The smirk vanished when Khamûl spun and struck at her face with his gauntleted hand; Susan saw stars, nearly blacking out for a split second from the force of the blow.

 _Foolish_ , thought Susan as she moved back slightly, putting distance between them. _Stupid. Got arrogant_.

But so did Khamûl. The Ringwraith grabbed his mace with both hands, winding up for a finishing blow. Amidst the searing pain in her face - the entire right side of her face felt like it was on fire, and she could feel herself loosing vision around her eye; the area around it was beginning to swell - Susan prepared herself, raising her left hand and holding her sword up with only her right-

Khamûl swung. Susan braced her left hand against the flat of her blade. She caught the blow directly on the sword with a loud ringing _crack_ , blocking it fully, and pushed the mace to the side with a yell, never seeing the spiderweb-like crack her sword now sported. The cut on her chest stung from the effort but it was worth it; Khamûl's guard was open, and she prepared herself for a counter-strike by grabbing her sword properly by the handle and swinging with her whole body-

And immediately knew she'd made a grievous mistake. With how long her windup was, Khamûl had more than enough time to prepare a counter. Had she a lighter weapon such as a longsword her attack would have connected, but as it was the claymore's weight made her swing much too slow. Instead, what happened was that just like she had done to the Nazgûl, Khamûl parried her attack perfectly, catching her sword with the haft of his mace and nullifying her attack completely while opening her guard and leaving her vulnerable.

A pity that wasn't the only thing that happened; the previously unnoticed crack gave way, and with the sound of tearing metal the claymore broke at its halfway point. Susan frozen her guard completely dropped out of sheer surprise.

The Ringwraith did not make the same mistake as she did with her parry. Khamûl stepped forwards into her guard; Susan blinked, taking a step back, trying to get away-

Khamûl punched her belly, the impact causing a _thump_ that was felt through her whole body. Susan didn't even look down, her expression turning to confusion as she stared at Khamûl. It was the closest she'd been to him since their battle began; her earlier assessment was correct, there was only darkness to be seen inside the helm through the faceplate. This was a warrior bred and trained to kill. So why had he punched her? And why didn't it hurt as much as it should have?

She was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Perhaps she should step back. Why was everything so muted all of a sudden…?

 _Shock,_ her mind supplied, her own internal voice sounding like a distant memory. _You're going into shock._

Oh. Okay. A step back then? Susan's legs moved her a couple of steps away from Khamûl, the Nazgûl letting her. As her mouth began to water, she found that it was suddenly difficult to breathe; her lungs felt full, but she lacked for air. She coughed, feeling something heavy and thick come up her throat. It dribbled past her lips, a salty, metallic taste pervading her mouth.

 _Blood. Internal hemorrhaging. Punctured lung. You're drowning in your own blood._

She was beginning to feel weak. Against her will, her head looked down and her eyes latched onto the hilt of a short knife. The knife's blade was in her abdomen. Khamûl hadn't punched her; he'd stabbed her.

She'd been stabbed. Her lung was punctured. It was filling up with water from her chest cavity. She was drowning in her own blood.

She was going into shock because her foe had stabbed her. Idly, her empty hands (when had she dropped her sword?) rose, and she grasped the knife's hilt with both hands. Ignoring the voice in her head that was telling her to leave it in, that she would bleed out quicker without it to plug the hole, she pulled out the knife; idly, she felt a soft jerk in her abdomen as she did so. It was a simple black thing, nearly 12 inches long, the metal a jagged black thing. The tip of the knife was missing. Susan realized that the jerk she'd felt was the knife's tip breaking off, remaining embedded inside of her.

Morbidly, she also realized that she could still feel the knife tip.

Suddenly, the blade of the knife disintegrated into dust. And her chest felt like it was on fire. The pain burned clarity into her mind, even as she collapsed to the ground with an agonizing thud. The pain was unlike anything she'd ever felt before in her life, an ice-cold agony that spread through her body as though it were running through her blood vessels.

And it was, she realized. It stood to reason that the blade she'd been stabbed with was magical; when it dispersed, the fragment inside of her must have done the same, and that substance was now poisoning her. Even now, as her brain raced ahead, trying to figure a way out of the situation, her body was slowly shutting down, one organ at a time. The pain was agonizing, like freezing acid spreading thin tiny tendrils through her flesh.

But she could still _think_. She was a Queen once, and while she won her throne in battle, she kept it by means of her wits. As long as her greatest tool, her mind, was still functioning, she could at the very least find _some_ sort of a solution-

 _You're dying. It's only a matter of time._

The realization brought her up short. Amidst harsh gasps of breath, her eyes widened with the realization that really, there _was no way out_. Not for her. Not anymore. She would die today, and when she closed her eyes at last she would open them to the sight of her siblings welcoming her with open arms and happy laughs and sad admonishments for dying.

And then the pain flared and the illusion broke; she gave a rasping laugh, blood dribbling down her lips. She was not worthy of Aslan's Country; her place was in the depths of an unknown hell, for she was no longer a Friend of Narnia. She would die in service and protection of the innocent, but lived her life in the belief of worldly things. Her fate was to burn in a nothingness that none alive knew of.

Her family was out of reach. She would die alone, and remain so for the rest of eternity.

But that was yet to come. Now, was the time to pay back her foe. If she was to die today, then she'd take the bastard down to the pits of hell with her. She weakly glared up at Khamûl, who stared down at her impassively.

" _Even as you draw your last breaths, you are defiant._ " For the first time since his appearance in her world, Khamûl spoke to her in a tone that lacked his earlier arrogance. " _I have fallen many. But none have been felled by a Morgûl Blade that had the strength to look me in the eye. Your strength is admirable. It will serve me well._ "

"Serve you…?" Weak as she was, she had strength to glare at him. "I would never serve you. Even in death."

" _Not willingly, perhaps. But the poison in your veins is changing you. You will no longer be of this plane. Neither living nor dead. Banished from Death. Banished from Life. A cursed existence, with only one purpose._ "

Susan shuddered, closing her eyes. Upon nearly blacking out, however, she opened them again; she was unsurprised to see that she'd blacked out for a second and was no longer looking up at Khamûl. Instead, her gaze was on that of her broken sword. The blade was broken at perhaps the perfect midpoint of its length, leaving less than two feet of broken black steel still attached to the hilt and guard. The break itself was at an angle, a clean, straight break that gleamed in the low light.

They say that glass is sharpest at the breaks. If that was the case, surely steel was even sharper?

Susan took a deep breath, pushing out the pain. She still had a weapon, broken as it was. Khamûl favored his right hand throughout the fight, so that was where she would aim for. She chanced closing her eyes one last time for a second of respite; Khamûl was watching her, waiting for her death, assured of his victory.

She'd made a mistake earlier, and he'd capitalized on it. Now, she would do the same to him. So, her mind clear, her heart beating faster and spreading both adrenaline and the poison through her veins and arteries, she looked up at the Nazgûl and gave him a bloody smile.

"I will never serve you," she said. That's when she threw up the gravel she'd fisted up into his face, and while the Ringwraith instinctively flinched backwards she grabbed at her broken sword. The Nazgûl was no fool and had placed his arm with holding the mace protectively in front of him - but Susan had counted on that.

In the last moment before the broken blade cut through Khamûl's wrist, a tiny glint of gold caught her eye.

The screech of Khamûl was of pain, but also terror. It was the most grievous wound that she could have ever dealt him; later she would find out that the blow was premeditated by Someone Else. Either way, the result was that the Nazgûl took several steps back away from the dying Pevensie, clutching at the stump where his arm ended; no blood fell from the wound. The armored hand, still clutching the mace, fell to earth with several resounding clangs. And all the while, the Nazgûl kept screeching, never ceasing his roar of fear.

" _My Ring! My Ring!"_ The armored helm snapped towards the fallen hand. _"I must have My Ring!"_

Susan knew not what he talked about. But whatever it was, she would not let him take it. Holding the hilt of her blade with her right hand, she shakily pushed herself up to a stand, clutching at her stab wound with her free hand. She stepped forwards, and Khamûl, for the first time in his entire existence, _took a step back_.

"You will have _nothing_ ," snarled Susan. "You are banished from death, but will suffer for eternity. Today you die, fiend, by my hand, as I will by yours. No Ring, nor tool, nor sorcery will spare you your fate!"

Khamûl froze, slowly falling to a knee. He was visibly weakening, she realized. _Whatever the effects that this Ring he speaks about had, they are no longer affecting him,_ she thought. _He is weakening. Already he has no strength to stand… just as I barely do. His breathing falters, harsh and wheezing, like that of an old man._

Susan took an agonizing slow step forwards. Khamûl had ceased his screeching. Susan took another step.

" _My soul is shattered,_ " said Khamûl as Susan stopped just in front of him. " _In death, I was Khamûl of the Black Legion, Second In Command of the Nine, serving under the Witch-King of Angmar and Sauron himself. But in life - I was Khamûl The Easterling. Mortal. Man. I lead armies, of Men, of Orc. To die in battle was my fate. A fitting one._ " The being behind the helm looked at Susan in the eye. _"End me."_

And Susan, looking down on her foe, gave her answer. "In the name of Aslan himself, I, Susan Pevensie, exiled Queen of Narnia, sentence you to death, your sentence carried out by my hand."

And with that, she unceremoniously stabbed her sword into Khamûl's helm.

 **...ooOoo…**

Khamûl's death had taken what little strength she'd mustered up as a price.

When the Ringwraith's body vanished in a mix of green smoke and black shadows, leaving behind nothing but ashes, she'd fallen backwards onto the ground, her sword falling from limp fingers. Her breaths came harsh, painfully, each movement of her chest sending cold fire through her veins. She could feel the pain not just in her body, but in her soul. Everything hurt; her arms from swinging the Claymore, her legs from all the rolling and dodging, her face from the backhand, her chest from the stab wound, her lungs from the lack of air. Everything _hurt_ , and yet all she could feel was pride.

She'd done it.

She'd _done it_.

In the years after the fall of the White Witch, her siblings and herself had always wondered if they would have fared better against Jadis if they'd been more prepared, more mature. It was, of course, a hypothetical question, but the question arisen again when the spirit of Jadis was almost summoned during the War of Deliverance, when the Telmarines were overthrown. She had never gone up against the White Witch in any of her lifetimes - not during the Winter Rebellion, nor the War of Deliverance - not like both Edmund and Peter had. Both had been defeated by her, Edmund nearly dying for his efforts, but this was during the times when they'd barely had any training whatsoever. That being said, both her and Lucy had borne witness to Peter's battle with the Witch, albeit from a distance.

After today's battle, Susan could safely say that Khamûl was on par to Jadis. And this filled her with pride and satisfaction like nothing else. Yes, she'd paid the ultimate price for it - but she was strong enough to do so and succeed. She was not weak - she was strong. She'd fought alone, and she'd emerged victorious, even if she would succumb to death soon after.

But before that bittersweet moment, there was one last thing that she wanted to do.

With a groan that managed to convey her pain and exhaustion in a single long sound, she rolled off her back and onto her chest. Coughing up more blood, she pulled herself forward with one hand, the other pressing against the hole in her abdomen. The movement left her gasping for breath, but after a few seconds of respite she did it again, this time using her legs as well.

Extend, pull, push. Rest. Extend, pull, push. Rest. Extend, pull, push. Rest.

Until she finally reached the ashes that remained from Khamûl's arm; both gauntlet and mace had vanished along with their master. With a grunt of difficulty, she began to shift through the ashes with her free hand, searching for that glint she'd noticed earlier. _How low I have fallen,_ she thought morbidly to herself. _Lying in an empty subway tunnel, nearly dead, and I'm searching in the ashes of my dead enemy for…_

…

...a Ring?

Susan's eyes beheld the golden curiosity in the palm of her hand. Ashes were still stuck onto the metal band; gently, she blew them off. She'd been wrong before, she realized - it was not of gold, but rather bronze, with an orange stone inset on the ring. _Topaz_ , she realized, her years of mingling in High Society supplying her with the information. The metal surrounding the gemstone was smooth save for some characters, a language that Susan did not know. It was a simple ring, yet stunning in its simplicity.

A beautiful thing. This was what Khamûl had begged for in his dying moments?

Such a small thing.

Susan closed her eyes, rolling onto her back once more. Holding up the ring in the dim light, her eyes sought out every single detail of it. It truly was beautiful, but why would Khamûl be so desperate to have it? Was it the source of his power?

...yes, it had to be, she'd drawn that conclusion during the battle…

Bronze, and orange. Gorgeous. Thick metal surrounding the gemstone revealed that the ring would withstand much punishment. This would not break easily. Just like Khamûl. Just like her. Khamûl was dead by her hand - she could afford to take a trophy. Why not this?

...I don't want a ring. I swore I'd never wear one unless _he_ gave it to me…

It would give her power, she realized. If wearing it was the source of the Nazgûl's power, then surely it would do the same for her!

...but he was fallen. She'd slain him. He'd said it himself, he was banished from death…

She was stronger than he was. He was weak. She'd slain him in battle, without the power of any ring.

….she would become him, wouldn't she?

No. She'd be _better_.

She would, she realized. Stronger. Faster.

Beautiful.

Even more so, her mind agreed. Like this ring.

Put it on.

So she did.

 **...ooOoo…**

 **Hello all! It's good to be back!**

 **Welcome to the first chapter of** _ **Through Fire and Shadow**_ **, my own crossover of the two very famous series** _ **The Lord of the Rings**_ **and** _ **The Chronicles of Narnia.**_ **My inspiration behind this has several reasons; the first, that I love both series. The second, that the authors were great friends in real life. Thirdly, Susan Pevensie's character is neglected in canon, but in fanon she's loved and given the chance that C.S. Lewis was unable to give her before his death.**

 _ **Queen Susan of Narnia**_ **\- the titled 8th book that Lewis never got around to writing. I think it's obvious what it would have been about, but since that never happened, I'm writing my own version.** _ **Through Fire and Shadow**_ **will span the events of** _ **The Lord of the Rings**_ **as Susan Pevensie joins the Fellowship of the Ring - but what changes will she bring to Middle Earth?**

 **Time will tell. I started writing this in November of last year. It's been a long year in not just writing, but in my personal life as well - friends gained and lost, growing past the death of my dad, balancing graduate school, managing my depression… it's been fun (not). But in the past couple of weeks, things have changed for the better. So, here's the new story. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.**

 **Disclaimers, for this chapter and all that follow:**

 **I own nothing.**

 **I don't claim to be a weapons expert of any kind; a lot of the detail in this chapter comes from my own nerdiness, research on the internet, and over 400 hours of video game experience in Ubisoft's** _ **For Honor**_ **fighting game (I know, trust me).**

 **I am no author - just a young man writing for pleasure. I seek no income, nor validation - only to share my ideas with the world.**

 **Thank you for reading my story.**


	3. 2: The Narnia She Once Knew

… **ooOoo…**

 _Through Fire and Shadow_

Chapter 2 – The Narnia She Once Knew

One doesn't realize how much everything is in movement until it all _stops_.

Dying was a lot simpler than Susan had realized. Truly, it was the easiest thing she'd ever done in her life; one moment she'd closed her eyes, a bronze ring the last thing she'd seen, and in the next everything ceased to move. No heartbeat, no breaths, no movements.

It was a single moment of eternity, yet it passed all the more quicker-

-there was grass prickling at the back of her neck. It itched. Susan opened her eyes, and gazed on a dark world of a dead forest and dry grass. There was little light to be seen, shadows covering everything, a deep chill permeating her surroundings. As she stood up, she felt like there was a wind howling around her, but no noise; the grass and branches, bereft of leaves, shook in a howling storm, with some trees even stripped down of their bark and branches. She looked around; she was standing on a small island, grey frozen waters lapping up to a earthen shore and a stable built on the shore itself. The wind was picking up frozen water in an icy mist that washed over her; within moments her clothing was soaked through, yet she felt nothing. A glance down revealed that just like her surroundings, her attire had also changed; she now wore a pair of leather leggings with a white shirt and a leather jerkin on top of the shirt, her old black boots still finishing the ensemble. At her waist, a simple black belt held the ensemble together.

She looked around, her eyes studying the surrounding landscape (or lack thereof) and landing on the stable. It was of a simple design - made completely out of wood with closed walls with no windows, a slanted roof and a thick, heavy door. Ice had crawled up and around the edges of the door, sealing it perfectly, utterly. As she approached the stable, she saw circular marks in the frozen dirt leading to the door; signs that the ground had frozen over already the last time that the door had been closed. Susan looked up.

There were no stars in the sky, only the black of an empty sky.

This, troubled her more than anything else. Rubbing her arms in an attempt at warmth - she should have frozen to death by now, and while she didn't feel the cold she certainly could feel the lack of heat - she approached the stable, hoping for some shelter. Her efforts were for naught; the door was completely frozen over, a thick sheen of ice on top of the wood and preventing it from opening.

"You will not find passage through there."

Susan whirled around. Standing on the ice with his back to her was a Narnian King. He'd not been there a moment ago; where had he come from? She knew that he was Narnian - the Red Lion crest was emblazoned on the back of his tunic, and even blinded she would've been able to recognize Rhindon, the King's Blade, sheathed at his waist.

"The Way is Shut," the King said, turning around. He was young, perhaps the same age as Susan herself, though the similarities ended there. Short blond hair framed blue eyes that were kind and just, his features showing his Telmarine ancestry. He was dressed in full Royal robes and armor, proud and valiant, silver, ruby-red and gold showing his Narnian colors.

"Who are you?" asked Susan. "What do you speak of? Where are we?"

The kindness in his eyes vanished and was replaced by sadness. "I am the Last King of Narnia. I am Tirian, son of Erlian, seventh King in descent of Rilian, son of Caspian the Tenth," he said. The name of her former lover sent a stab of hurt through her heart, yet Tirian continued to speak. "The Way Is Shut, for only Friends of Narnia could walk through that Door. It leads to Aslan's Land." He turned around once more, looking out at the frozen sea. "As for where we are-"

"Narnia," said Susan. She walked forwards until she was standing right next to him. "We are in the Narnia I once knew." Eyes wide and shocked, she looked at Tirian with tears beginning to build. "What _happened_?"

Tirian didn't meet her gaze, preferring to look out at the empty sea. What he looked at, she didn't know, but his gaze was unmoving. "It Ended," he said. "Cair Paravel was felled, its inhabitants massacred. The Calormens ambushed us, infiltrated our lands. A Lion was said to walk the lands, bringing the word of Aslan - or so we thought. We were fooled, and the Narnians fell with little resistance. Talking Animals willingly served the Calormens as the False Lion commanded them to. Trees were felled, waters were damned. Tash himself was summoned, bringing pestilence and death with Him. And on the Hill we stand on, it was all decided." He turned to look at her, tears in his eyes. "Aslan himself Roared - and this world ended."

Susan looked away from Tirian, turning to look back at the frozen stable. "But this place remained?" she asked. "Why?"

"It is where the False Lion was harbored," said Tirian. "A Donkey, of all creatures, wearing the skin of a long-dead lion. Not a _Talking_ Lion. The Ass was fooled, you see; tricked by an Ape into doing his bidding, into pretending that he was Aslan. The Ape loved power and was drunk on it; he made a deal with the invading Calormens. Puzzle the Donkey was forgiven by Aslan himself; Shift the Ape was taken by Tash."

Susan's strength left her, and she fell to her knees. Narnia was dead. The land she'd fallen in love with was gone. Oh, the irony, to finally return to her true home, only to find it dead and gone.

Next to her, Tirian returned his gaze to the frozen sea. It was a tragic image - the Last King of Narnia, standing proud with a melancholy gaze cast at the land he once swore to protect; next to him, on her knees and facing the opposite direction, the Gentle Queen stared at the Door that was forever closed to her. Both mourned the land that once was.

"King Peter spoke of you," he said. "When I was cast through the Door, I was greeted by the Seven Friends of Narnia. Peter said that you were no longer a Friend of Narnia; that you'd turned your back on the land that you once loved-"

"I always loved Narnia," she snapped, tears falling from her eyes and freezing on her cheeks. "I never, not even for a moment, not even in my darkest days, stopped loving Narnia. But my pain was too great, and the one thing that could heal my heart of its wounds was forever lost to me."

Tirian shifted, and his hand touched her shoulder. It was not an unkind grip, but it was firm, and she drew comfort from it. "I know this," he said. "You would not be here if you didn't. I am merely answering your question." Releasing her shoulder he continued, "High King Peter declared you were not a Friend of Narnia. Had he known the consequences of his words I have no doubt that he would never have spoken them."

Susan closed her eyes. "He always had that problem." She shook her head, "He never truly understood that as High King, his words, his actions, meant so much more than those of the rest of us. It used to drive me spare."

"That his words meant more?" Titian asked pointedly.

"...yes. And no. I admit my jealousy, but only when he would overrule my words and actions in the first year or so of ruling; when I'd grown up, matured, I understood the wisdom behind his actions. He was my _brother_. I could never hate him for being given power that I didn't deserve." Susan gave a sad chuckle. "No, I was jealous when I was young. When I was a _Queen_ , I understood. But it didn't stop me from getting angry when his wordings would get us into more trouble. He made mistakes, just like the rest of us. We loved each other for it."

Tirian gave a thoughtful 'hmm'.

For the next few minutes, the two remained silent, one still kneeling, the other standing. Finally Susan broke the Not-Silence. "What did Peter do to me?" she asked.

Tirian sighed. "As he stood before me, High King Peter declared you were no longer a Friend of Narnia," he repeated. "When those words were uttered, any door that could lead to Narnia or Aslan's Land, in this world and all the others, were shut for you in life. In death, your soul would travel… _Somewhere._ I do not know where. But you were barred from entering Aslan's Land upon your death, which is why you are _here_. Aslan's Land is just beyond that door - but The Way is Shut for you. You see a closed door, the wood frozen over; I see an open gate, light spilling and warming me as if I'd never been cold before."

A single tear fell from Susan's closed right eye. "I always knew I'd never see them again," she said. "My family is lost to me."

"But you will see them, for you are not as lost as you may think."

Susan opened her eyes to Tirian standing in front of her and holding his open hand out to her. She never heard him move, but this didn't surprise her. "Take my hand," said Tirian, and as she laid her hand in his and he gently pulled her up, he continued, "and rise as a Friend of Narnia once more, for the sacrifice of your life in the defense of the innocent."

Immediately, there was a loud _crack_ , and the ice around the door broke as the door was blown open towards the two. Susan gasped, covering her eyes with her arm at the sheer intensity of the light spilling forth. It was as if the sun itself had risen on the other side, with a gentle warmth flowing through the open gate and into her. When she felt like her eyes had adjusted, she slowly lowered her arm-

Aslan's Land was beautiful. It wasn't how she remembered Narnia - it was _better_. Through the open gate, she could see the Lantern Waste, could see the rolling hills and the tree spirits dancing with the river gods, could see Cair Paravel, the Narnian standards flapping in a gentle wind. In the distance, beyond high cliffs and roaring waterfalls, she could see a Hill, with a high stone wall surrounding it. Through the open gates, she saw them.

Peter, wearing his royal armor, his arm around Edmund's shoulders as they roared in laughter at an unheard joke. Lucy, standing next to them, giggling in happiness, her eyes on Eustace Scrubb and Jill Pole, who were holding hands with happy yet blushing faces (Ha! She _knew_ that would happen, those two were always so friendly, even before Eustace's first trip to Narnia!). Behind them, yet still close, Digory Kirke and Polly Plummer were animatedly talking to John and Helen Pevensie, her parents' faces glowing.

Susan let out a cry of joy; they were _there_ , they were _happy_ , they were all _there!_ It was the best and most beautiful thing she had ever seen in her life, and her heart sang with the joy and wonder of the image. She held out her hand, as if she could reach out and touch them-

The Ring shone with a sinister light on her finger.

She froze. As she watched, the orange topaz shifted and changed color - it was now a purple amethyst, and in the center was an orange flame tinged with black shadows. The bronze band had been much larger when she'd held it before, made for fitting over Khamûl's gauntlet; now it fit perfectly on the ring finger of her right hand, as if it had been made for her.

But that wasn't the only thing that made her freeze. The skin under the ring had become a snow-white, yet had algo gained a translucency of sorts. Her veins and capillaries had changed color, turning into a stark and sinister black that made a huge contrast against her skin. Further inspection revealed that both her arms were the same, and so she looked down at herself, patting herself down, pulling up the white shirt and jerkin-

There was a hole in her abdomen.

Susan stared. The wound that had taken her life was unhealed, open for anyone to see. It was much smaller than she'd thought; the slit in her flesh was about two inches long, the flesh an angry red-and-black under her skin. Horrible black lines spread from the stab wound to the rest of her body; the poison, Susan realized, from the… what was it called? From the Morgûl Blade.

"What… what has happened to me?" She looked up to Tirian, as if hoping he would have the answers she sought. "What _is_ this?"

Tirian looked at her right hand. "That Ring," he said, "is made from pure evil. Forged in a mountain of darkness, by a being who sought to control a world, it is made to dominate its wearer so that they may follow the bidding of its master. I know not who forged it, nor how it was forged - only that its evil and power will never be allowed into Aslan's Land. Do not even try to cross that threshold while wearing it."

Susan stared at him, then back down at the ring. She grabbed at it with her left hand, and tried to pull it off; only to fail spectacularly. She pulled and yanked and swore and sobbed, pushing through the agony she was putting her right hand through, but the ring would not come off. She glanced at Aslan's Land, breathed in the hope, and then looked at the sword sheathed on Tirian's hip.

One moment, the sword was sheathed; the next, the handle was in Susan's left hand, and she was pulling it out of its sheath and away from a surprised and shocked Tirian.

"Wait, stop-!"

Too late. Susan swung, aiming at her own wrist, just like she had with the now-slain Nazgûl - only to suddenly stop, Rhindon's blade quivering slightly as it remained a hair's breadth away from cutting into her skin.

Susan stared. Tirian stared. Susan's left arm was shaking from the strain of pushing against whatever force was resisting the King's blade, preventing it from cutting off her hand. Eventually, Tirian reached out and curled his fingers around the blade itself, gently pulling on it until Susan released her grip on the sword.

"The Ring will prevent you from removing it from your person," said Tirian, holding the sword by the blade, but not sheathing it. "Only if it is taken forcibly from you, by an unknowing enemy, will it be removed from your hand. You cannot give it away, nor can a friend take the burden; this is your curse to bear, the price that you pay for wearing the ring."

Susan tore her eyes away from the ring on her hand and looked at the King. "How do you know this?" she asked.

"The Lion," answered Tirian. "Aslan told me what you would need to know. And He is not here for the reasons that you think," he added upon seeing her expression, "on the contrary, it pained Him to not be here as much as it pains you. It is simply that He has interfered too much on your behalf."

Susan frowned. "I don't… wait. The bow in the train station?"

Tirian nodded. "Among other things," he said. "The Mother and her babe, along with her words. His Roar, to give you strength. Aslan even influenced the way that you cut at your foe's arm so that the Ring would be separated from the wraith and you would be able to slay Khamûl. Small things, to make sure that you would live." Tirian gave a sad glance at her abdomen. "But even He is not infallible. He did not expect for you to be attacked with such potent Dark Magic. Had He been there, He could have prevented the blow; but it was not to be.

"This is why He allowed you to be tempted by the power of the Ring. He feels that He failed you; and so, He made sure that you will have another chance at life. The Ring will keep you tethered to life, but at a cost. A terrible price. You will live, but not a full life. You may die, but will not remain in that state for long. You may sleep, but it will never be restful. You can dream, but only with nightmares."

Susan gaped. "How is any of this 'another chance at life'?" she asked, incredulous. "This is no life what you describe, but rather a waking nightmare! What is the purpose for cursing me to such an existence-!"

"You were not cursed by Him!" snapped Tirian. "He allowed you to be tempted, but ultimately it was _you_ who put on the ring! You were weak enough to succumb to the power-!"

 _Slap!_

As Tirian reeled from the blow, Susan glared at him with a look of utter disdain. "You foolish child," she said. "You speak of things you do not understand, judging from your high horse. You think yourself a King, but have the wisdom of a child! You claim to be the last King of Narnia, but it is now I realize why you carry such a title!"

Tirian's eyes flashed with rage. "You dare-!"

"Be silent," snapped Susan, every bit the Queen she once was. "You have made your stance clear; you believe me to be weak. And you would be right! I was weak! I let my faith be buried in pain, lost my chance at anything to gain! Many a year I spent in grief and rage, stewing in my self-hatred!" Her glare intensified as she stepped forwards, forcing Tirian to take a step back. "You know not of the pain I carry! You stand there, judge me as weak, belittle my person; but while I claim my weakness, I will also claim my strength! For it was I who stood her ground against the Nazgûl! It was I who raised arms against the shadows! It was I who _slew_ Khamûl, who had the will to take the fight to him!

"I _died_ , Tirian, son of Erlian, in the greatest service possible! I laid down my life for the innocent! I lived in weakness and darkness, but I died as a Queen, as a Warrior! I died for what I believed was the right thing, and I had the strength to do so!"

"Strength that was not yours!" Tirian pounced on the opening that unbeknownst to him had been given to him by Susan. "It was Aslan who gave you the bow! 'Twas Aslan who roared! It was _Aslan_ who guided the blow to sever the ring from your foe, to separate him from his source of power! You do not have strength of your own!"

Susan gave a laugh. "Aslan gives his blessing to those who ask, but He is a _Lion_. He gave me the _tools_ necessary for me to fight Khamûl, but ultimately it was I who had the strength to do what needed to be done! I had the strength to take the tools I was given, and did what I could to protect the innocent!

"You call me weak, _King_ Tirian, but the truth is that you do not know the meaning of weakness. It is not something that you can define on your own, nor could a council of Kings and Queens do the same. Just because of your title, you are not given the right to judge me; for my Judgment falls under the purview of the blind beggar, the common person, the military man, and the _High King_ himself. I am a _Queen_ \- not a god. I do not judge you, as you should not judge me."

Tirian straightened himself up, using his extra height to stare down at Susan. "I have nothing that warrants judgment," he stated.

Susan didn't even dignify him with an immediate answer. Instead, she turned around, facing the frozen sea. "Some would disagree," she said. "A country does not fall in a night. I am sure that you feel the guilt of losing Narnia to the Calormens, to the corruption of lies and deceit." She glanced at him with a sad gaze before returning to look at the frozen seas. "You feel the responsibility of losing Narnia. You feel as if it were your own fault. You are her Last King - it is only your right. But whether or not the End of Narnia and the Birth of the Deadlands was Aslan's will, it _ended_. You are no more responsible than I am."

Tirian was silent. For a few minutes, the only sound was that of the howling wind, unimpeded in its infinite journey across the Deadlands. As before, Susan marveled at the magic in the air; even with Narnia being, well, _dead_ , there was still enough magic to ensure a conversation between herself and Tirian without having to shout at each other. Susan glanced to the south; was the rest of the world frozen over as the Deadlands were? What of Archenland? Or the Great Desert between the Narnian Empire and the Calormens?

"Well said, My Lady."

Susan gave a jump of surprise. When she looked at TIrian, he too had the same expression on his face. Both turned to look towards the open door leading to Aslan's Land; standing there was a young man, dressed in black hunting boots, a light red tunic and an orange cape thrown over it. On his head was a circlet, denoting him as Archenland royalty. Like Tirian, he was blonde with blue eyes, but his face was more rounded compared to Tirian's angular Telmarine looks. It was a face that she felt was familiar somehow, but could not understand why.

The Archenlandian King bowed his head to her. "Queen Susan," he said, straightening himself. "Your beauty has not diminished in the slightest since I last laid eyes on you. Had my eyes and lips not belonged to my beloved Aravis, I would not hesitate to sing you a ballad that would make the poets of Calormen and the bards of Narnia swoon with jealousy."

Then, his serious countenance was shattered by a cocky smirk as Susan's eyes widened. "Not that you liked those much," he said. "Gentle you were, but even you were tired of paltry words and graceful verses."

Susan smiled in happiness. "Cor!" she laughed, moving forwards with open arms and meeting his own approach in a happy hug. "My goodness! The last I saw of you was with a filthy face and Calormen rags! I couldn't believe the tale that Edmund brought back with him from that trip!" She separated from him, holding him by the shoulders at arm's length. "Look at you, a King! And married, yes? I must meet the young lady to capture your heart, the Lady Aravis! Though her name sound of Calormen origin…"

"She was," confirmed Cor. "She was my companion in my journey from Calormen, across the great desert, into Archenland. She was the daughter of Kidrash Tarkaan, fleeing from her country when she was to be forced into a loveless marriage. Aslan guided us to each other, and together we travelled to Tashbaan, and form there, Archenland. It was a difficult and perilous journey, one that nearly claimed our lives, but at the end, we succeeded and saved Archenland from Prince Rabadash's machinations."

Susan snorted, giggling at the memory as she covered her mouth with her hand. "Rabadash The Ridiculous, they called him," she recalled. "Aslan sent him back to Calormen as a donkey. I remember."

Cor grinned. "It is good to see you, My Lady," he said. "I wish it was with better circumstances." He turned to Tirian. "Tirian, my friend - Aslan has summoned you back."

Tirian's eyes widened. "But I have not finished telling the Queen-"

"You've told her what you needed to," interrupted Cor. "I will take care of the rest. Go - he awaits you within the grove."

Tirian hesitated, then bowed. "As Aslan commands," he said. "Queen Susan - despite our differences, it was an honor to meet you. Your words have given me much to think about."

Susan smiled at him. "I meant no offense with them; I am merely glad that I was able to give them to you. Walk with pride, King Tirian."

"I shall, My Lady," he said. Then, he held out Rhindon hilt-first to her. "This is to remain with you," he added. "'Tis a weapon for war - it does not belong in Aslan's Land. As the Last King of Narnia, it is my right - and duty - to impart Rhindon to the Last Queen of Narnia."

Susan did not hesitate - she reached out and took the sword by the hilt. "I thank you, King Tirian," she said, holding the sword reverently. "You honor me."

Tirian shook his head. "Nay, my lady - you honor _us_. May we meet again."

With one last bow, Tirian turned around and walked through the door. Almost immediately after crossing the threshold, he took off running - and within moments, he was gone.

Next to her, Cor gave her a kind smile. "Shall we walk and talk, My Lady?" he said, offering her his arm. Susan smiled and put her free hand through the crook of his arm, her right hand still holding Rhindon by the hilt. Cor then guided her towards the door. "Fear not, My Lady," he reassured her. "You carry the King's Blade in one hand, and are guided by a Friend of Narnia by the other; that ring will have no power. Come; let us walk into Aslan's Land."

Susan gave him a kind smile as they crossed through the Stable Door. "I thank you, my friend. Please, call me Susan."

"I shall - and in the same manner, please, call me Cor. Only Aravis calls me Shasta, and only when she is angry." He held out his free hand to the land before them. "Welcome to the True Narnia; welcome, Susan Pevensie, to Aslan's Land."

 **...ooOoo…**

Death is neither a kindness or a curse. It is simply an ending, a closing of a chapter. For some, it is the close of the book, their story told, finished, to be put aside with either a happy or sad sigh. For Susan, it was merely a milestone, one that in her darkest moments she had wished for yet taken no action to reach. Now, it was a blessing - for through death, she was able to experience what awaited her once her duty was done.

As Cor lay in the shade of a pomegranate tree, a leather pack of sorts next to him, Susan was going through some forms with Rhindon. She experimentally swung the sword as she shifted from stance to stance, though all the while there was an unsatisfied frown upon her beautiful face. Finally she ended her practice with a flourish, ending with the sword held to her side and pointed to the ground.

"I should not complain," said Susan, "for 'tis a good blade. But it is not _comfortable_ in my hands. Nor was the claymore, no matter how well I wielded it."

Cor, with his hands behind his head and laying on his back, peeled open a single eye, glancing over her form. "It is not made for your arms," he said, closing his eye again. "It must be remade for you. Rhindon shines with potential in your hands, but there is something missing. Had I observed your form with the claymore - and what a glorious sight that must have been! - I most likely would have said the same. The blade you require must be longer and heavier than Rhindon; but obviously nothing as ridiculous as a claymore. Rhindon is a one-handed blade, but many times I see you lose the blade's balance. A larger hilt would correct one problem, but you are left with another, and that is that Rhindon is too _light_ , correct?"

Susan glanced over at him, surprised. "Indeed," she said. "I am used to heavier blades. Oreius trained us all to use the blade, but he always gave me one of his two handed swords to train with. Peter and Edmund were horrified at first, but that grew into terror when they realized that I was truly proficient with the larger blades. Lucy simply laughed and said that Aslan truly had a sense of humor when he gave me my title of 'The Gentle'."

Cor chuckled. "These are stories that no one knew," he said. "Queen Susan the Gentle, 'Mistress of the Longsword' was never a title of yours. Nay, you were known as the deadly archer, the Hawkeye of Narnia. Your arrows were swift and silent, never missing your intended target." Cor opened both his eyes and gave her a curious look. "But you were also the most peaceful of your siblings, rarely heading to war."

Susan glanced down at Rhindon. "In many ways, I was still a child," she admitted, admiring the Kingsblade. "Even as a Queen, I held on to the naive ways of a child. I trained for war, yet stayed away from it, pretending that it didn't exist by staying behind high walls and a fortress by the sea." Susan sighed, moving over to the shade where Cor rested and sitting down next to him. "Such childish ways I carried," she said.

"'Tis in the past now, Susan. Worry not about those ways, lest you'll never grow past them."

Susan nodded in agreement. "A lesson I've learnt well," she promised.

For the next few moments, the two rested in silence. Eventually, Susan was the one that broke it. "So what shall I do about the blade?" she asked.

Cor sat up, holding out a hand. "May I see the sword?" he asked. When Susan gave it to him, he turned it over and over in his hands. "The claymore you wielded broke because it was a blade of darkness," he said. "It was forged in evil and and embraced the shadows. In your hands, it was weakened, for a tool of the dark cannot be wielded by a hand of light and not suffer for it. In that same sense, this sword will also break in your hands. The Ring has, for better or worse, corrupted you - you are of the dark now, and this sword is of the light."

Susan frowned at the reminder of the cursed artifact. "So I should not wield it?" she asked.

"On the contrary - for Rhindon to be great, it must be broken, and reforged anew. Already this blade has been weakened - look here!" he pointed at a specific spot, where a hairline crack could be seen, "Already this sword shows its weakness - I understand that the second successor to King Rilian was responsible for this. He was a corrupt King, his reign lasting no longer than a year. He was dethroned by his twin brother, who was unable to best him in battle. The Corrupt King tried to slay his younger sibling with this very blade, but Rhindon refused to make the cut. Instead, when the King struck his brother's neck with the sword, there was the sound of steel striking stone, and Rhindon flew out of the King's grasp and into the waiting hands of the younger brother."

Susan's eyes were wide at the story. "Truly?" she asked. "How did such a King come to exist?"

Cor smiled at her, his eyes shining with humor. "Why, with a good imagination and a better storyteller!" Cor laughed at Susan's pout, the Queen realizing that she'd been had. "I jest, my friend. This crack is new - it is from when you attempted to cut the Ring off your hand. Rhindon refused to make the cut, but the reason lies in my story."

Susan frowned. "It would not cut because the hand wielding it was dark," she said, looking at the amethyst Ring.

"And because the cut it would make would be in someone of good," added Cor. "You must remember that you are in conflict, Susan. The path you walk is of both the Fire of change and the Shadows it casts. Only time will tell if you are to preserve your light, or fall to the dark. You carry light and dark, and so too, must be your blade." Cor held Rhindon to her hilt first. "Rhindon _will_ break. But it will be the beginning of a new sword. A _Queensblade_." When Susan took the sword back, he added, "I know not how this blade will be reforged, Susan Pevensie. Only that it must. No other sword will fit you best."

Susan nodded. Earlier, when she'd held it by the blade, Rhindon had not bitten into her flesh no matter how hard she squeezed, and she'd wondered why this was. Now, she knew, and she wasn't sure if she should take the news as good or bad.

Either way, it would be wise for her to acquire a sheath for the blade. At the very least to avoid future questions. Why _did_ Tirian take the sheath with him?

When she posed the question to Cor, the man shrugged. "Because the sheath he was using did not belong to that blade," he answered. "Rhindon's sheath is at the Ruins of Cair Paravel, in the Deadlands. There too, you shall find your horn. Which, actually, brings me to the next point."

With a grunt, he stood, motioning for Susan to follow him. Doing so, the two walked together in the direction of the Door to the Deadlands. It was a few minutes' walk; but once they were there, Cor reached into his pocket and pulled out a golden key.

"I must remember to return this to High King Peter," he said, putting the key in the Doorway's lock and opening it. Ice-cold air immediately blew through the Doorway, and Cor started to shiver; Susan though, felt nothing.

With the Doorway open, Cor pointed out to the far dark East. "Your path lies over there," he said, lowering his hand. "You cannot stay here, Susan. You have one final duty to this land, and then you must follow your path of redemption and remove that Ring from your finger. To do that, you must first journey to Cair Paravel; search in the ruins in the castle that was, and find your Horn of Ivory.

"Remember my words, Queen Susan. Sound the Horn, and Herald the end. Your path will open, and the power of the Horn will send you to a Land Beyond this one. Through Shadows and Darkness you will fall; when you arrive at the broken mountain, you will find the fragments of the blade that slew the Nazgûl. Seek the Last Home East of the Sea, and speak to the god-blessed for the flame of ancients. Hands of light to hammer the steel, demon's breath to melt and forge."

Cor shuddered. "The words of Aslan are yours to follow," he said. "Follow that path, and you shall be reborn in light. But always remember this: The Darkness is thickest before the breaking of Dawn." Cor moved forwards, and hugged a frozen Susan. "It was good to see you, my friend."

Returning the hug, Susan nodded. "I shall miss you," she said as they separated. She hesitated, before adding, "Please - tell my family that I shall see them soon. To not worry. And that I love them dearly, and think about them every day."

Cor gave her a sad smile. "I shall," he said. He nodded at the open Doorway. "Further Down, and Further Out, Susan Pevensie. When you are free of your Ring - Further Up, and Further In. Remember my words, Susan Pevensie, for they are your only guides on your journey."

Susan nodded, taking a step out the Doorway. And it was in that moment, that she turned around to gaze one last time at Aslan's Land.

She laid eyes on the rolling hills and the grassy mountains. She laid eyes on waters of crystalline blue that shined with the light of day. She laid eyes on tall trees and peaceful knolls. And in the far distance, Further Up and Further In, miles and impossible miles away, she saw through the open gateway her family, laughing and smiling and generally celebrating their happiness. Susan smiled, memorizing their faces, memorizing the joy mirrored in their expressions, and found herself laughing happily. For even though she knew not what they were laughing and smiling about, their joy was such that she felt herself joining in.

As if the sound of her laugh was carried by the wind, one of the people looked up. Susan gave her a small, joyful smile. As Jill Pole tugged on the sleeve of Lucy Pevensie, drawing her attention with wide eyes, Susan gave a small wave. And when Lucy looked over and gave a yell of happiness and joy, Susan laughed again.

The hardest thing, however, was when Susan motioned for the girls to stop. Seeing the confusion on their faces, Susan shook her head. For even with everything that had happened, Susan was not ready to confront her family. Not yet.

And Lucy, Aslan bless her, understood. Crying, Lucy nodded, hugging a confused Jill close to her. Susan nodded in thanks.

 _I love you,_ she mouthed at her sister.

And Lucy smiled, wiping her tears. _I love you too,_ she said.

And with the love of her family supporting her - for Lucy spoke for herself and their family - Susan Pevensie, Last Queen of Narnia, turned around, and stepped through the Doorway.

 **...ooOoo…**

The interesting thing about the Deadlands was that even without a source of light, there were differences in the darkness. It was as if there was dark, and then there was _dark_. Susan was careful to avoid those patches of deeper darkness, instinctively leery of what she might find there. Amidst the pitch-black that she was walking in, Susan wandered. One step at a time, taking care to avoid areas that she thought were filled with unknown terrors, he continued on, unsure as to where she was going yet walking with purpose.

Because though she knew not how to get there, she knew where she had to be. Cair Paravel was calling her Last Queen home.

And so she walked. On and on, she kept going. Her boots crunched the ice underfoot, though not once did she slip. She did not shiver, she did not tire, she did not hunger, and she did not thirst. She lived, but only in a pale mockery of life.

The constant monotony of her walk left with no choice but to confront her thoughts. And what thoughts they were! For the bad were like hornets, stinging again and again, and the good were like putty, slipping between her hands but leaving behind happy traces. Susan knew that in many ways, her guilt was misplaced, but the thing about our minds - they are our worst enemy.

Susan remembered the happiness that she'd experienced in Aslan's Land.

And it was all a lie.

 _How quickly the happiness becomes tainted and sour_ , she thought. _How quickly does the sweetness of life turn to ash in my mouth. Because that happiness is a lie._

One must understand, Susan Pevensie had lived her life for Narnia. When she was a teenager, she'd grown from a gentle young girl to a Queen whose beauty and wit ended wars before they began. Queen Susan the Gentle was the immaculate politician, with her perfect makeup and her bright eyes and red lips and form-fitting dresses, all of it perfectly tailored to distract and confuse the men going to war. And while yes, there _was_ a large part that enjoyed the attention, Susan Pevensie had a mind to match her beauty, a razor-sharp intelligence that gave wicked smiles and ruthlessly exploited the drawn eye and love-filled gazes.

She'd done it to Rabadash of Calormen, after all. The Calormene noble was an uncouth beast, but he was still a man, ruled by his hormones and his little brain, prone to raging and poetry, swinging left and right from rage to an eerie calmness that had a strange, ruthless charm to it. Yes, Susan remembered him well - remembered how his poetic words would make her blush, yet the rage and hatred in his eyes made her legs quiver with fear. But she also remembered how in every single encounter, no matter how affected she was by him, _she_ had always been the one in control - she'd controlled their encounters, the words, the emotions, _all of it._ And Rabadash had _known_ it and hated it because she was a _woman_ and he was powerless against her. All she'd had to do was wink and laugh and he'd become her ever-willing slave. _That_ was why he'd tried to invade Archenland - because of his hatred for her, hatred born out of being dominated and then thrown away like yesterday's trash.

Susan smirked. Yes, her politics and rule had been the dark edge that her siblings simply did not have. The only one that had understood that ruling meant hiding a few skeletons in the closet was Edmund. But even _he_ was blind to the manipulations that Susan had woven. Even years later after the failed invasion of Archenland, he never realized that all of it had been orchestrated by Susan herself, never realized the lengths that Susan had been willing to go to in order to protect the country she loved.

Peter went to war, bloodied his sword. Edmund had planned the battles, judging the prisoners of war. Lucy had walked in the aftermaths, healing and getting her hands bloody from pushing innards back into bellies, from holding dying hands and splinting bones.

Susan simply _stopped_ the wars from ever reaching her land.

For Rabadash had been her pawn, and the weakening of Calormen her true goal. She'd played on Rabadash's lust for her body, built up his desire, and then stole herself away in the middle of the night, an implicit challenge for him to chase her. Her goal had been for Rabadash to die in the ensuing chase - the Calormen prince, chasing after the Narnian Queen, killed in the attempt to take her by force? The surrounding lands would've cheered the Narnians, and Calormen would never have recovered from the political embarrassment. And when the dust settled and Rabadash was turned into a donkey by Aslan, Susan was delighted, for things had not only gone to plan but had actually gone _better_ \- after all, Archenland was saved by Cor, then known as Shasta, when he warned King Lune of the impending threat and sent an emissary to Cair Paravel for military assistance, and the result of _that_ was a strong healthy alliance with the nation that stood between Narnia and her greatest threat.

Susan Pevensie was a Queen of Narnia. While her brothers spilt blood for Narnia, and Lucy picked up after them, Susan _smiled_ for Narnia. She smiled the politician's smile, her words razor-sharp, and with a _gentle_ touch made Narnia's foes dance to her tune. She used her beauty and intelligence as the weapons they were, and she was ruthless even as a part of her heart died, wailing in pain at the atrocities that she was putting herself through. A decade of rule she'd had, a decade of her life she'd sacrificed for Narnia. And when Aslan had said that she was no longer welcome, she'd hidden her pain and walked away _without protest_.

 _Yes, I had my years of lack of faith_ , thought Susan. _But after all those years of necessary sacrifice, I wanted to feel_ nothing _. And I didn't. Not until the train crash._

 _Narnia left me behind. And in return, I abandoned her_. _I abandoned Narnia and her memories, and I was judged for it._ Tirian's moral high ground stance came to mind. _All those years of service to my country. And one mistake earned me this curse. Earned me the judgment of those who do not understand the circumstances that lead to my downfall._

She glared down at the Ring, instinctively knowing where it was even with the lack of light. _I die protecting innocents. And yet that is not enough for Him, not enough for Aslan to come and take this Ring-_

Susan shook her head. _No,_ she thought, _that is not Aslan's way. You know this. I put on this Ring, and so I must be the one to find a way to remove it. After all, Aslan once said that no one is told any story but their own._ Susan smiled, _Funny, it was Cor who'd received those words. How appropriate._

She shook her head. _These thoughts will not help me. I must finish this journey._ Susan frowned, following the sixth sense that was guiding her steps through the ever-present darkness. _Cor said that I need to 'search in the ruins in the castle that was, and find my Horn of Ivory. Sound the Horn, and Herald the End'._ Open, unseeing eyes were rolled. _But everything around me_ has _ended, has it not?_

For the first time since crossing the threshold into the Deadlands, Susan stopped walking. _...no, it hasn't. I step on Ice from a former sea. Below the ice is earth, and the carcasses of trees and animals and men._ Susan glanced around, staring at the unending blackness. _This land - yes, it is dead. There is no Sun, nor Moon, nor Stars. The air itself is stale and cannot sustain life. The earth is black and barren, the sea frozen and unmoving. But it is all_ here _. This land still exists._

 _Why?_

A few minutes, or hours, passed. At some unknown point, Susan had started walking again, though now her steps were agitated and rushed. _Further Down, and Further Out_ , she thought. _Down the rabbit hole of thought I go. Both Cor and Tirian described the events that lead to the downfall of Narnia. But if Aslan opened his lands to the good and worthy, including those were dead, why would all this remain? This isn't even a mockery of what's left behind, 'tis a carcass! A carcass of an entire land! A whole world!_

 _I walk on the Deadlands that make Narnia, but it stands to reason that the rest of the world is in this state as well! The Lone Islands, Calormen, Archenland, even Ettinsmoor - all of it drowned. All of it lifeless. There is_ no purpose _in leaving all of this behind. So why is it here?_

 _I must Herald the End._

Suddenly, she remembered the small, yet important action that Cor had undertaken when he opened the Doorway to the Deadlands for her.

 _Cor reached into his pocket and pulled out a golden key. "I must remember to return this to High King Peter," he said, putting the key in the Doorway's lock._

 _I know that key_ , she realized. _I remember now. We never spoke of it to Lucy or Edmund, our grief was too great, but I remember it. Aslan gave Peter that key the day that He told us we would never come back to Narnia again._

She remembered clearly now, remembered the grief amidst the tears she was holding back, remembered the shine of a golden key handed to the elder sibling, remembered the soft winds of a bright Narnian day, remembered the shining eyes of a mournful Lion. And she also remembered how Aslan had whispered to both of them, that He loved them, and that their duty was the greatest and most terrible. That when Time came, they had the tools they would need.

Susan began to run, her sense of urgency now driving her forward. _He never gave me anything_ , she remembered. _Time_ did _come - Father Time came to Narnia and smothered the sun. Cor said that after Father Time crushed the sun, darkness fell over Narnia, and Peter locked the door, separating the two lands. That key is the one Aslan gave him in our last journey here. But Aslan said that we_ had _the tools we would need._ We _, not Peter._

 _I must Herald the End._

 _The Horn._

 _Sound the Horn to Herald the End._

 _The Last Call of Narnia._

 _I must end it._

Susan kept running. Her strides long and powerful, her heeled boots never slipping on the ice, Susan never stopped. The winds kept howling around her, but instead of pushing against her they encouraged her now, whispering in her ears, telling her to hurry, to rushrushrush and notstopnotstopnotstop. Her journey was coming to a close, she realized; soon, she would reach the ruins of Cair Paravel.

 _I wonder what I will find there_ , she thought morbidly. _The stones and ruins I remember during the days of Caspian's rise? The powerful bastion of strength that I was crowned in? Whatever the case- what is that?_

Her eyes zeroed in on the first change in scenery since she'd stepped foot in the Deadlands. Ahead of her there was… not light, but the darkness was lightening. And as she kept going on, she realized that there _was_ a light, only it was so far away that the only difference was that the darkness was losing its hold.

 _I approach,_ she thought. _Hail, Cair Paravel! Your Last Queen returns!_

Onward she went. The light began to define itself, first as a pinprick, and eventually taking a flame like shape. The ice was becoming less smooth, as if the waters had been choppy when they'd frozen over- and suddenly there was a sudden wrench on her foot and Susan went flying.

 _Wham!_

Susan hit the ice hard, simultaneously sliding and rolling for a few feet before finally stopping. With a groan, she pushed herself onto her feet - only to panic when she realized that she was no longer holding Rhindon.

"No," she muttered, falling onto her knees and casting her hands out, searching desperately for the sword. "No, no, no, no, no…! Where is it? Where's the sword?"

Fruitlessly, she kept searching for the sword, eyes going left and right and around, failing to pierce the darkness and catch the glint of Rhindon's silver-like steel blade. "Please!" she cried. "Where is it? I need the sword!"

A glint. Susan's head snapped in the direction of the glint and she gasped - Rhindon was softly glowing in the dark a few feet away, a soft pale blue that came from within the blade. Nearly slipping again in her hurry, Susan hurried over to the sword and picked it up; immediately, the glow stuttered and flickered before finally disappearing.

 _Magic,_ she realized. _The sword has its own magic. It is just like Cor explained - it is of Good._ Her grip on the hilt became more reverent. _A good blade_ , she thought. Idly, she noticed that the hairline crack that Cor had pointed out had grown just so. _I am sorry, Rhindon,_ she thought.

Her inspection of the sword done, she glanced around. _Now, what did I trip on?_ She glanced back at the sword with a rueful expression.

"I don't suppose you could help with a little light?" she asked.

It took a few moments, but Rhindon began to glow again with the same soft blue from before, though perhaps not as intensely. Susan gave the sword a soft smile. "Thank you," she said. There was no reason to not be polite, after all.

Looking around, she retraced her steps. Soon she spotted exactly what had tripped her, and she swallowed back the bile that threatened to rise. The frozen, rotting hand that was sticking out of the ice had two of its fingers broken off, the bone a sickly green and the flesh a frozen black. Perhaps what made her even more wary was the fact that the hand was human - too large to be a dwarf's, and much to small to be a Centaur's. Perhaps it was that of a Faun, but the ice around the hand was too thick and didn't let any of Rhindon's light to filter through.

Suddenly suspicious, Susan raised Rhindon, pointing the tip of the sword towards the empty heavens.

Susan breathed in, gathering that which fueled her sixth sense. During the many years of their reign, the four Pevensies had had many experiences with the Deep Magic, the first being the Resurrection of Aslan and the breaking of the Stone Table. Truly, they'd been exposed to so much of it over the years that by the time that their reign was over, they'd developed a sort of sixth sense when it came to Magic. In some capacity, all of them were able to channel it in certain ways, though never to the point of Magicians and Wizards. They could recognize it, and could even perform small feats themselves - but they were no magicians, and never would be.

As such, Susan concentrated on that sixth sense, on the Deep Magic surrounding her. For a few moments, nothing happened. Then, amidst the howling, unstopped winds, there was a deep cracking sound, as if Susan had shouldered an unfathomable weight and the ice was reacting unfavorably to the pressure. At the same time, Rhindon began to glow again - this time, with the potential of more.

"I ask for strength," Susan intoned. "I ask for warmth. I ask… for _light!_ "

Rhindon let loose a beam of blue light straight into the heavens. With no stars in the sky, no sun nor moon nor celestial beings of any kind, the light travelled unimpeded for miles and miles - to the point that on the other side of the Doorway to the Deadlands, an arguing Pevensie and a passive Lion were silenced by the beam shining through the Doorway.

"It has begun," said the Lion. "She has started her Journey. There is nothing we can do."

For the first time in both life and death, Lucy Pevensie glared at the Lion. "There are many things we can, _should_ do," she snarled. Others listening to the argument would later admit that Lucy sounded more like a lioness in that moment that in any other. "You just won't let us interfere."

"There are things that she must learn on her own-"

"They are lessons that she earned and studied years ago!" Lucy snapped. The Lion growled at the interruption, but Lucy growled right back. "She does not need to pass these trials! She is _more_ than worthy to walk these lands!" Lucy stepped forward, right into the Lion's face. "And argue all You want that she _chose_ to walk those trials, to take off that stupid Ring on her own - You never corrected her, You even sent people to talk to her that would further that way of thought! I know not just _why_ you insist on her undergoing such suffering - my Sister is more than worthy, more than deserving of being here. Yes, she made many a mistake when she was alive, but she also did great things!

"She is not walking this path for redemption; she is making this journey because _You_ chose it for her. It is a mistake." Lucy's eyes sharpened to the point of cutting diamonds. "And even _gods make mistakes._ "

And the Lion _roared._

On the other side of the Doorway, Susan heard, nor knew, of any of this. Still holding the blade aloft, she looked around in horror at the surroundings. Her suspicions were confirmed - in the ice, were a veritable _army_ of bodies. Some were on the surface, others were imbedded in the ice. All had died in the same way - drowned and broken when the sea had risen up. Most wore the armor of Calormen - others wore the Lion's standard. The bodies were not just of Men - but of Beasts and Centaurs and Fauns and so many other creatures. Beings who never had a chance to make it to the Doorway. Beings who'd been left in the dark, alone and cold. Beings who'd suffered at the hands of death, denied the chance of an afterlife.

Beings who'd been left alone in the dark. Just like her.

In the distance, jutting out of the ice, was the tallest turret of a tower. It held no colors nor flags on its ramparts, but Susan could recognize the Narnian architecture anywhere. Still numb from her discovery, Susan lowered Rhindon, the beam of light dissipating but the sword retaining its gentle blue glow. She clutched the sword by the blade in her left hand, wary of touching the sword with the Ring. She kept her eyes on the turret even as it disappeared from her vision and the blackness of the eternal night returned; she had seen Cair Paravel, and now its call was stronger than ever. Ignoring the bodies around her but knowing that they were there, Susan began walking again.

Some time later, she'd climbed inside the tower by means of a decently-sized hole in the side. Raising Rhindon, she took a good look at the inside of the tower - the stones were blackened and burned by a terrible fire, though everything looked remarkably well-preserved. The stone stairs that lead down, deeper into the tower and into the castle proper, were thankfully ice-free - it seemed that whatever magic that the builders Caspian had chosen for Cair Paravel's reconstruction had included "waterproof up to several miles underwater" in their quality of standards. Susan scoffed at her own joke, and began to carefully descend deeper into the castle.

Deeper and deeper she went. She'd gone Further Out - now, she went Further Down. Cair Paravel had once been a grand castle, with high ramparts surrounding the grand halls and servant's quarters, high towers watching over them all with Lion standards flapping in the gentle sea winds. Right now, Susan had stepped out of the ruined tower into the connecting barrack. Unfamiliar with the layout of this castle that Caspian had built, Susan pressed forward, Rhindon bathing everything in a haunting blue-

She was not alone.

Susan stared at the ghost. Even bathed in Rhindon's blue, the spirit was a ghastly green. It was a horrifying sight - ripped garments barely held over rotting green flesh, rusted armor clinking and scratching against itself. Hollow, empty eye sockets stared at Susan with a haunting gaze.

" _You are living,_ " said the ghost. It had the same rasp as Khamûl, Susan noticed - though none of his cruelty or darkness.

"I am banished from death," said Susan. "What is your name?"

" _I am Anradin, so named after the Tarkaan,_ " said the Calormen ghost. " _In life, I would've recited you my list of ancestors with pride - but in death, I have forgotten much. My many apologies, my Lady of Bright Blue."_

Susan gave the ghost a gentle smile. "Nay, there is no apology necessary, for no slight is made," said Susan. "I am Queen Susan of Narnia. The Last Queen of Narnia," she added.

The ghost gave a gasp, before throwing himself at her feet. " _Blessed, I truly am,_ " Anradin said, " _For millennia, I have wandered these halls, cursed by my own existence! Yet now I realize how truly blessed I am, for to gaze upon your beauty and grace makes the passing of my existence a mere blink of an eye! I would proudly, happily suffer this fate again, if it meant I could glimpse your beauty for a second longer! Barbarian Queen you may have been known as, but if any man had glimpsed your face, they'd hav't knelt and sword their lives t'you!_ "

A ghost he may have been, but he was a _Calormen_ ghost - and they'd always had a way with words. Susan laughed, waving away a gentle blush. "I thank you for your kind words, Anradin of Calormen," she smiled. "Arise, my friend - for in this time of death, we are not Queen and Soldier, but two beings wandering, seeking their path."

Anradin hesitated for a moment, before gently following her instruction. " _I thank you, My Lady of Bright Blue,_ " he said. " _But I must satisfy my curiosity - why come to these empty halls? There is only death here, plus the wandering spirit or two._ "

"You're not alone?" she asked, hoping to distract the ghost.

" _Nay, My Lady,_ " came the answer. " _We await our End. Most thought that our journey was at an end with the conquest of this castle. We knew we were wrong when the first bodies began to heal of their wounds, lifeless eyes began to open, and lungs began to breathe again, the dead returning to life. Calormen and Narnian alike breathed again, and in the ensuing chaos none dared draw another blade nor a single drop of blood._

"' _Twas then that the Salamanders and Dragons came from beneath the earth, consuming and burning us all. The surviving few retreated behind the walls - but their flames bit and burned the stone into slag, the monsters destroying everything in their path. Or so we thought. A group of us, numbering less than 20 had retreated to the Grand Hall, barricading ourselves there, for whatever sorcery that was protecting the Hall saved us from the ever-seeking flames. We thought Tash had intervened for us - how foolish we were._

" _And then the Sea rose and swallowed the castle whole. We were buried underwater. The only escape was the tower that you just climbed, but not even that was the escape we hoped. For the seas had risen, carrying with it the corpses of our fellow men and the remains of our Navy. Suddenly, before our very eyes the moon was consumed by the sun, and the sun crushed by the hand of a Giant. And we were plunged into a freezing darkness that has not been lifted since._

" _We starved to death, My Lady of Bright Blue. We starved because we refused to become beasts and consume the flesh of our comrades. We starved because the food stores ran out quickly - why bother rationing food, when the World had ended? There was no salvation for us. We butchered Narnia, spilt Narnian blood on these very shores - we paid for every drop spilt. Our destiny was cruel. Our curse unending. And it did not distinguish between Calormen and Narnian - for victims of both our nations were held prisoner by this accursed magic._

" _And we were denied an afterlife. Tash had forsaken us - and your Aslan did not answer when called. We starved to death. And in death, we were banished from peace. These halls are empty - the dead guard it so. You will find no living here._

" _I ask, My Lady of Bright Blue - what brings you here?_ "

Susan shed a tear at the ghost's sad tale - for who was she to deny this man's soul her sadness? Cruel was their fate, and she would do everything in her power to free him, and his companions, from their ghostly prison.

Still shedding tears, but with her voice strong, Susan spoke, "I come seeking two things - a sheath for this blade, and a Horn of Ivory. I have come to Herald the End of this world. I have come to give you the peace you seek. I know this now.

"Years I have loved this land. Twice over I have seen Narnia covered in Ice. I have bled, loved, and hated this land, and it is a part of my soul, of my heart, and I have loved it with every breath, every word, every action. Narnia has always been my home - and I know now that I must end it. For all things come to an End, and it is my duty to End this. I buried my brothers and sister, I buried the Seven Friends of Narnia. And now, I must bury Narnia itself. The Deadlands, Narnia has become - it should _never_ have been so.

"This duty falls to me. I ask you, Amradin of Calormen - have you seen the items I seek, the Horn that will End this world? For I have come at last to fulfill my duty, and with haste, I must do so - for every moment that passes is a moment you remain cursed, and my heart cannot bear such cruelty."

Amradin was silent for a few moments. Eventually, he spoke again, " _I have seen the Horn of Ivory. It is guarded in the Grand Hall, in a place of honor above the Six Thrones. Its power could be felt even when blood ran through my veins; in life it terrified me, but in death… it_ called _to me. I understand not its power._ " Amradin stepped aside, motioning with his hand to the door on the opposite side of the barrack. " _I shall guide you, My Lady of Bright Blue._ "

Susan gave him one of the gentle smiles she was known for. "Then I walk assured, my good friend, that I will never be lost in these halls."

Together, woman and ghost walked through the halls. Dust there was a plenty - but no cobwebs, for there were no spiders to make them. Wood had warped and blackened, for there was humidity in the air, but not rotten - magic preserving it so. After a few minutes of walking the unfamiliar halls, they emerged through a side door and into a Grand Hall.

And it was there that the dead awaited.

Twelve men, and seven magical beasts, including Talking Beasts. Susan's eyes passed over them all, seeing and understanding. The Beasts had been reduced to skin, nay, leather and bones, but their eyes shone with intelligence. The men, barely more than skeletons in armor, stood at attention with their hands upon their curved Calormen swords. The one ghostly Minotaur exhaled loudly, clutching his warhammer. Two cats, leopards it looked like, loped around his feet, growling and hissing. Three armored centaurs watched with calm gazes as the Faun standing next to them clopped his hooves nervously.

All of them had eyes on Susan. None said a word. Every single one of them showed signs of decay and rot, with a greenish glow shining from within and their bodies semi-transparent. They said nothing, but the Hall echoed with their whispers.

Amradin pointed at the back of the Hall, where two rows of thrones awaited. " _The Six Thrones, My Lady,_ " said he. " _Do your duty, and free us all._ "

At the those last three words, there was a rustle and every ghost in the Hall shivered. Everyone, it seemed, awaited eagerly, yet expected nothing. Perhaps so they wouldn't feel disappointed afterwards if nothing happened or Susan failed at her task.

The Last Queen of Narnia vowed to never let that happen.

Striding confidently among the ranks of the dead, Susan approached the raised dais of the Six Thrones. Passing the first row of thrones, which had only a single pair, she ignored them completely. She paused at the second row - these were the Four Thrones that she and her siblings had sat upon many years previous. From the far left to the far right, they'd sat in accordance to their ages; first Peter, then Susan, followed by Edmund, and ending with Lucy. Susan laid a gentle hand on her own throne, fingering the familiar wood. She'd thought that the Thrones had been destroyed during the Telmarine invasion and subsequent conquest; perhaps these were replicas?

It mattered not. Shaking herself from her thoughts, Susan abandoned the Thrones and walked all the way to the back, where a glass case rested on top of a long table. There, she sucked in a breath.

On the left, was Rhindon's scabbard resting on a pillow of purple. Next to it, was a familiar bow, its ivory quiver still filled with red-feathered arrows. On the far right, a small cordial filled with the wine-red juices of the Fire Flowers from the Valley of the Sun, Lucy's cordial still as pristine and brand-new as it'd been when Susan first saw it. There were other items as well - a Brooch with a star-gem in the center (Susan had suspicions as to whom that'd belonged to and had no desire to even look at it), the earrings of Queen Swanwhite the First (The Queen who'd preceded Jadis, the White Witch, as ruler of Narnia), a Shield of Silver with the Red Lion emblazoned on the front (Susan had _no_ idea to whom that belonged to, it certainly wasn't Peter's old shield) and finally, a flashlight (she had _no_ idea what to make of it).

And in the place of honor, acting as the centerpiece of the collection was a white Horn of Ivory.

Susan placed her hand on the glass case, only to flinch and pull her hand back upon contact - she may not have felt the deep cold that was surrounding her, but the glass was apparently covered by _magical_ ice. The sixth feeling that allowed her to touch the Deep Magic was tingling; apparently _this_ was the source of Deep Magic surrounding her, and the ice was _permeated_ in it. This would not open or break easily.

Susan sighed. "Of course it would not be so simple," she muttered.

And indeed, it wasn't. The locks keeping the glass case closed were completely frozen over, the mechanisms jammed. She'd picked up a stray stone and tried breaking the iced glass, only for the stone to be completely crushed. She knelt in front of the case, spoke to it, punched it, asked it (both politely and not) to _please_ open, but nothing worked. Next to her, Amradis observed in silence, his countenance shifting from amusement to boredom and back at her various attempts. Frustrated, Susan threw her hands up and stepped away from the glass; short of _kissing_ the damn thing (and no, she was _not_ going to do that and risk her lips getting stuck to that ice, thank you very much!) she'd tried everything.

"A plague upon this glass!" she cursed. "What exactly does it want from me?"

" _Perhaps it requires a price in exchange?_ " Amradis wondered out loud. " _In Calormen, we had tales of locked and trickster boxes requiring an exchange of sorts in order to open them. Most often, the price was of higher value than the items contained within them._ "

Susan inclined her head, considering, but shook it. "Blood won't work," she said. "This ice - it is not a protection placed by a Narnian. It is Deep Magic, and while a blood price _does_ work for Deep Magic," Aslan's death upon the Stone Table and subsequent resurrection came to mind here, "I cannot sacrifice my blood." At Amradis' questioning glance, she added, "It is tainted. And Rhindon will never cut into my flesh anyway."

Amradis nodded. " _And even upon your order, I would never draw a blade against you,_ " he said. He nodded at the rest of the ghosts, " _None of us would._ "

Susan nodded. After a few thoughtful seconds, she glanced at Rhindon where she'd left it leaning against Peter's Throne.

 _Rhindon_ will _break,_ Cor's words reminded her.

"...there is power in sacrifice," muttered Susan. Walking over, she grabbed the sword by the hilt. Pondering over her decision, she glanced at the iced glass case a few paces away.

With two large strides, Susan crossed the distance and swung at the case with the sword.

 _Clang!_

Twenty pairs of eyes stared at the crack in the glass. One pair of eyes stared at the crack in the sword. With bated breaths, every eye watched as Rhindon rose and fell on the glass again with another resounding clang - and both cracks widened.

As the ghosts began to mutter excitedly, Susan grimaced. _So be it,_ she thought. _I thank you, Rhindon Wolfsbane._

In response to her thoughts, the sword felt warmer in her hands. Susan's grimace became a grim smile as she raised Rhindon a third time, striking at the case once more. Again and again, she swung and struck, and with every strike the cracks on both the case and sword began to grow. The Iced Glass made by Deep Magic faltered with every blow, but so did Rhindon's strength. Susan kept her eyes on the case, not letting herself be distracted by the burning of her muscles, or the perspiration on her brow (she could still sweat, even though she'd not eaten or drank anything since her death? Interesting), or how the Ring on her hand grew heavier and the black lines on her body thickened and darkened, or how her eyes began to shine in the reflection of the glass (her irises were still their bright blue, but they shined now with an inner glow, and was that the shadow of a fiery red behind the blue…?). She noticed nothing of this, her eyes keeping track of her progress.

Finally, the glass case looked like it would take no more. It was sunken in at the spot where she'd been hitting it over and over, spiderweb-like cracks branching out from the one spot in the center of the glass pane. Similarly, Rhindon's blade was noticeably chipped and fractured. Susan didn't have to feel for the Magic to know that with one more blow, both Rhindon and the glass would break.

And so, Susan flipped the sword over, the point aimed at the center of the cracks as she held it by the hilt with both hands. With a roar of exertion, Susan stabbed downwards, throwing her entire weight behind the blade.

There was a loud, sharp _crack,_ a flash of bright white light that made Susan feel like she was on fire for a single instant, and suddenly she was airborne and empty-handed.

With a mighty crash Susan fell in an uncontrolled roll against at the foot of the dais. Upon catching her breath and pushing herself up she realized that she was not the only one affected - all of the ghosts had been pushed back as well and were picking themselves up with expressions of wonder and chagrin. Standing, Susan looked down at herself and gasped - gone was the paleness of her skin and the black lines caused by the poison of the Morgûl blade. The wound caused by the blade was still there, but no longer did she look like a corpse.

Rhindon's sacrifice had had a side effect, it seemed. The thought of the sword reminded her of what had occurred; shaking herself of the wonder, she quickly approached the dais.

The Six Thrones were shattered into barely more than kindling. Sparing them no thought, she pressed on until the end where the case had once been. Gone was the glass completely, the ice completely vaporized even as the items within were untouched. Of Rhindon, only the hilt remained intact, its blade shattered into pieces of silver steel that were barely bigger than one of Susan's fingers, all of them spread and thrown around the table of treasures.

Susan froze. After a few seconds, she knelt amongst the shards, and began to pick them up one by one. And suddenly, she was not alone in doing so - the twenty ghosts were there as well, picking up the Shards of Rhindon. One of the ghostly centaurs picked up the scabbard and tied Rhindon's hilt to it; a Calormen soldier, not Amradis, turned the pillow into a sack for all the shards. One by one, with nary a single word spoken, every shard was collected and placed within the purple sack, which was knotted closed by Amradis himself.

The Calormen presented the sack to Susan, while the Centaur presented the hilt and scabbard. The Queen took both in hand, fighting tears the whole time. Their task done, the ghosts parted way, and Susan stepped forwards.

She immediately got to work. Lucy's Cordial, with its pouch, was tied to her hips with its belt; she also tied the sack containing the Shards of Rhindon to the belt. Her quiver of arrows was slung over her shoulder, and after fastening Rhindon's scabbard to the quiver both were now secured on her back. Her bow also joined them, its string still intact after so many years. The Silver shield was strapped to her left forearm, the fingers of her right hand running over the engraved words on the inside of the shield:

 _My name is Rilian, Son of Caspian the Seafarer and Lilliandil the Star-Born, and my mind is my own._

 _This shield belonged to Caspian's son_ , she thought. _I will treasure it_. She glanced at the brooch with the star-gem. _And now I know the name of the woman that healed his heart_ , she thought. She picked it up. _Lilliandil, even though I should despise you - I thank you for your kindness, and your love. You made him happy when I could not, and that means everything to me._

She fastened the brooch to her jerkin for now; whenever she'd acquire a cloak she'd use it then to keep it closed. The earrings of Queen Swanwhite the First she put on her ears - the teardrop-shaped diamonds sparkled gently in the darkness. Said to be the most beautiful Queen in the history of Narnia, Swanwhite was murdered personally by Jadis when she took control; her body was never _completely_ found. Her famed earrings, famed for their simplicity and beauty, had been forged by Black Dwarfs years before, and were rumored to be the Queens favorite. Susan had always wanted to wear them.

Finally, she took her Horn off the table. Holding it in her hands, she felt its power. The feeling of being called vanished entirely, and Susan then realized what had occured eons previous - someone, with their dying breath, had blown the horn when the Apocalypse occured, and its magic had protected the Hall and its inhabitants, tying them to this current plane. How it had ended _back_ in its case, she didn't know, nor why the Horn's magic deemed it necessary to enchant the glass so that it would stay protected. Either way, it had eventually called _her_ to this place, so that its magic could be released.

Well, she was here now. Susan glanced at the ghosts around her. Amradis nodded encouragingly. The rest of the company was now smiling. And Susan closed her eyes and raised her Horn to her lips, taking a deep breath.

" _With the power vested in me,"_ intoned Susan, " _I call forth the End of this World. Let my love for Narnia bring about its end, and usher in the next. Let these souls, Guardians of the Horn, be ushered into Aslan's Land and the afterlife and peace they seek, for their duty is fulfilled! Let the Gateways that lead to this world break and collapse. Let it all End. Let what remains be lost to the cosmos. So mote it be; so say I, Susan Pevensie, Last Queen of Narnia! So say I, the slayer of Khamûl the Nazgûl, Invader of Worlds! So say I, chosen of Aslan!"_ Susan took another deep breath. " _LET THIS WORLD END! LET TIME STAND STILL! LET THERE BE_ _ **NOTHING! FOR I AM THE HERALD OF THE END, AND THIS IS MY WILL!**_ "

And Susan blew the Horn of Ivory.

The sound that emerged was deep, leaving behind a rattling in her bones that she would never forget. It was a proud sound, piercing the silence and ice as if they were nothing. It was a sound of _magic_ , of hope and despair and life and death and everything in between, splitting like a thunderclap and echoing in the not-silence.

And as the twenty ghosts smiled as their souls were released, moving on to Aslan's Land; as a Stable of Straw and Wood shattered and broke, its Magic Doorway splintering and snapping before coming simple wood; as in a world of skyscrapers and Men, a Fellbeast was shot out of the sky and it plummeted into an abyss under a station, the Gateway snapping closed behind it; as the Ruins of Cair Paravel began to crumble under ice; as the Deadlands began to break and snap as the earth heaved and rumbled; as Father Time, standing a silent vigil, finally let out his last breath and Died; as all of this occurred, Susan Pevensie was buried.

But fear not, dearest reader, it was not _her_ end. Her journey had only just begun.

But Narnia, was gone. And everything was at it should have been.

 **...ooOoo…**

And in a World of Rings and Elves and Men and Dwarves and Magic and an Eye of Red-and-Blue Flame - a blue-eyed woman awakened.

Susan Pevensie had arrived in Middle Earth. And nothing was ever the same.

Somewhere in the distance, a Lion's Roar was heard.

 **...ooOoo…**

 **A month and a half. For over 13,000 words.**

 **Holy shit.**

 **Let me know of any comments or reviews! I'll happily read each and every one! This chapter has not been spell-checked or edited (my editor is no longer available) and so I'll take every critic and suggestion happily.**

 **Notes on the chapter:**

 **-Tirian's character represents that one person (or people) that we all know that is genuinely good, but ultimately believes themselves above others because they think they're morally superior. Take his interactions with Susan; at first he's all kind and sad and understanding, but when comes to Susan's temptation he belittles her because he holds faith in the motion that Aslan was testing Susan and that she supposedly failed that test. He thinks himself above her simply because he believes that Susan's lack of faith in Aslan makes her less of a person.**

 **-The pervading lesson throughout this lesson is Sacrifice and its weight. It's all over the chapter - in how Susan ruled as a Queen, how she struggles with her love for Narnia and the realization that she needs to participate in its end, in the sacrifice of Rhindon and the cleansing of her body, all of it.**

 **-I have a headache.**

 **Disclaimers, for this chapter and all that follow:**

 **I own nothing.**

 **I don't claim to be a weapons expert of any kind; a lot of the detail in this chapter comes from my own nerdiness, research on the internet, and over 400 hours of video game experience in Ubisoft's** _ **For Honor**_ **fighting game (I know, trust me).**

 **I am no author - just a young man writing for pleasure. I seek no income, nor validation - only to share my ideas with the world.**

 **Thank you for reading my story.**


	4. 3: The Ranger of Arnor

… **ooOoo…**

 _Through Fire and Shadow_

Chapter 3 – The Ranger of Arnor

Middle-Earth was a cruel place. But it was also beautiful.

A Lone Ranger stood watch at the ruins of Fornost, known to Man as Deadman's Dike. Near a thousand years ago, this place had been a key city in the defense of the lands of the North Hills and the Weatherdowns, located to the far west of the Misty Mountains. Today, in the month of September of the year 3018 of the Third Era, it was nothing but ruins covered by an uncaring Mother Nature, grass and trees growing between the cobblestones, vines bringing down buildings. Men avoided this place - but the Dúnedain did not. For them, this was a place of sorrows, of memory and lessons to be learnt. The Dúnedain were few - but their memories were long.

Rangers, they were called. Rangers of the North. The last remnants of a great people. Even a thousand years ago, by the time that Fornost had been invaded by the forces of Angmar, and subsequently recovered in the year that followed, the Dúnedain had been to few to repopulate and restore Fornost to its former glory.

 _A shame,_ thought the Ranger. _A glorious city this once was. Sadness and evil still cling to the stones of this place; the Witch-King scarred it terribly. Just another show of Sauron's evil._

The Ranger glanced to the northwest. Too far to see but remaining clear in the Ranger's mind, the ruins of Carn Dûm, the former capital of Angmar, left no evidence to their former evil glory. The journey from Rivendell to Carn Dûm had taken months, and in the end the Ranger was left with as many questions as before with nary a single one answered. Too long had the Witch-King been gone from those lands - and too effective had the Rangers been in wiping out any of the orcs that remained there. Not that those would have been of any help - orcs were not ones for remembering things. The memories of these lands rested with the Dúnedain, and the Ranger was not fool enough to ask those kinds of questions.

It went against keeping a low profile, after all.

A quiet nicker behind the Ranger had them glancing. The Ranger smiled at the brown horse approaching. "Searching for more oats, Destrier?" asked the Ranger, revealing themselves to be a woman. The horse nickered again, pushing its nose into the Ranger's cloak, searching for the delicacies. The Ranger laughed, gently pushing back and rubbing the horse's nose affectionately. "My dearest Destrier, you've had enough of those! You'll get fat and lazy, and where will I be left, hmm? Horseless, that's what!"

The horse _pff'd_ in response, vigorously shaking its head.

"You disagree now, but it changes nothing. Mark my words, you'll not get another oat!" All the while, the Ranger did not cease rubbing the horse's head, her hands reflecting the kindness and love that could be heard in her voice.

The horse, of course, did not answer. For it was not a _Talking_ beast. Those didn't exist here, and quite often the Ranger found herself lamenting that-

Susan rolled her eyes. There she went again, getting melancholy over a past that was long gone. Three years she'd been here in Middle-Earth - one would think that she'd have gotten over these things by now! Unfortunately, as different as Middle-Earth was from Narnia, there were similarities as well, such as in how there was a sense of magic through the air and earth, in how truly _wild_ the countries were, and the parallels made Susan weep in sadness.

Middle-Earth was cruel. It was filled with a darkness and evil that pervaded and corrupted the land, that haunted your every step and made you wary of the dark. But it was also beautiful; beautiful in the wildness of the land, in the sheer _purity_ of its untouched nature.

Idly keeping her hands on Destrier, Susan looked back to the south. Somewhere to the Southwest was Rivendell - Imladris, as the elved called it. A truly beautiful and peaceful place, it had been the first place where she'd had contact with anyone in this land. The elves had been wary at first, but within a few days they had welcomed her with open arms.

" _Where am I? Who are you…?"_

" _My dearest Queen, I am simply a messenger. You are precisely where you need to be - but the answer to your question, is that you are in another land. Welcome to Middle Earth. Let me guide you to those who would help you on your way."_

The old man had been true to his word. Imladris was, truly, the most beautiful location that Susan had ever laid eyes on. Not just in the location or the buildings or even the nature of the place - but in the people as well. Truly, the elves of Rivendell shone in their hospitality for Susan, welcoming her and treating her as one of their own. The blade on her back, as well as the knife at her waist, were proof of this.

Destrier pushed against her hands before pulling away from her, taking Susan's thoughts with him. Susan gave a chuckle; yes, even Destrier was proof of the elves' hospitality. He was a gift from Arwen, the daughter of the Lord of Rivendell, whomst had given her an envious look when Susan had departed on her journey nigh on two and a half years previous.

" _Long has it been since I rode on the plains of Middle-Earth, with nothing but the freedom of the winds at my back and the safety of a known destination in front," she had said. "I shall relive such freedoms through the stories and tales you shall bring back upon your return - for he will always remember how to return. You shall have no better guide upon your travels."_

Arwen's words had been almost prophetic in how true they were; not once in her three years had Susan ever truly gotten _lost_ , though there were plenty of times when she was unsure of her next destination. And what travels she'd undergone; following the unmarked roads north, hugging the skirts of the Misty Mountains, chasing after tales and legends of the Witch-King of Angmar, the most notorious and infamous of the Nine Fallen Kings. The Lord of Rivendell, Elrond, had been the one to point her in the direction of the Witch-King's former seat of power, and it was to Carn Dûm that she journeyed to for answers.

She'd found none, of course. Only ruins, and barely even those, for time and nature were not to be held back. Walking the corrupted lands had been a surprising trial for her - the earth, the vegetation, the water, even the very air she breathed was tainted with the black magic that had once been practiced there. And while the Ring on her finger was silent, she was wary of fueling its dormant power in any way, and so after an extensive search that lasted months, Susan gave up and left.

" _Be wary, Lady Susan." Elrond's face was grave as he beheld her. "That Ring gives you life - but it is not your ally. Though it may speak to you with the voice of a friend, remember always that it is the snake in the grass, waiting to strike. So long as you hold on to the light in your heart, you need not fear walking in the dark."_

It had been three summers since she'd heard those words. But they weren't the only words she'd heard; in the two and a half years spent wandering Arnor, she'd come across plenty of the Dúnedain that still remained active in Arnor, though none in the region of Carn Dûm. It was a solitary life that they led, and Susan was more than happy for the company, untrusting as they were. It was a group of them that had led her to Fornost upon her request - though apparently they'd been journeying to the location already, to help teach their young the lessons of history.

That had been over a month previous. Now, Susan stood alone, pondering the next step in her journey. She didn't really have much of a plan anymore - she'd searched for answers in the two places that were most famous for the presence of the Witch-King. The Ringwraiths had been around for Millenia, since the second age - the year 2251 to be exact - but _very_ little was known about them, other than the basics - they had all once been Mortal Men, all of them great Lords and Warriors. Three of them had been Númenóreans, and one had been an Easterling King. Ironically, Susan had been the one to provide new information about the Ringwraiths, and it was two-fold - that they could be killed by severing their connection to the Rings they wore, and the name of the Easterling King, Khamûl.

And so her search had been forced to an end. At least for now; there was one other place that she could search for answers, and it was to the south, in the tower of Orthanc, home of Saruman the White. Susan would journey there next, though she planned to pass through Rivendell on the way there; she had a promise to keep to Arwen after all.

In the meantime, however…

Susan reached over her shoulder and quickly gripped the handle of the sword on her back. With a long draw, she pulled out the blade she'd been given by the elves. It was a longsword, made in the style of Men; the Shards of Rhindon remained in Rivendell, along with the broken claymore of Khamûl. This sword was incredibly light for its length, made out steel akin to any normal blade, though notably of much finer make and skilled hands.

It was also nameless. It was a sword made to be lost or broken in battle, but Susan had taken good care of it thus far. It wasn't like she didn't have an excuse to use it - plenty of orc had roamed the lands of Arnor, though they were almost extinct by this point, hunted by the Dúnedain over the years. Still, there were a few here and there, and in Carn Dûrn there were plenty of dark creatures to be found that needed slaying.

In the meantime, however, Susan didn't draw the blade to slay anything - instead, it was simply to practice. With that in mind, she made sure that Destrier was far from range of her swings before getting into stance: left foot forward, knees bent slightly to lower her center of gravity, her sword gripped by the hilt in her right hand at upper chest height with the blade itself resting on between the crook of her thumb and index finger and on the back of her raised left forearm, leaving the sword perfectly horizontal and the point aimed in the same direction as her left shoulder.

Holding the stance for a few seconds, she controlled her breathing, keeping it relaxed and making sure that her hands didn't tremble. She wasn't worried about the sword cutting into her skin - the steel gauntlets protecting her arms, shoulders and hands took care of that - but the purpose of the exercise was to control her body's reactions to stress and strain. Oreius had been efficient in driving the lesson home of how important it was to be both tensed and relaxed when in battle; tension so that she could burst into action, and relaxed so her muscles were not working against her. Both states would allow her to move quickly in a split second, which was incredibly important to Susan especially as both an archer and a master of the longsword.

Well, mistress. Same thing.

After a few seconds of holding the stance, she then moved the blade down in front of her waist, without shifting her feet or moving her upper body. The sword was left at an angle pointed slightly upwards, her right hand still in the same spot on the grip, but now also supported by her left hand gripping the hilt just behind her right hand. The weight of the sword's pommel helped to balance out the weight of the blade, but the entire weapon was kept in its position because of how her hands were positioned on the sword.

She flowed into the third stance. Shifting the sword to her left side was a matter of taking a single step back, shifting her left foot backwards so that her right leg was facing forwards, and keeping the sword protecting the front of her body by not moving her hands at all; instead, her arms simply followed through with the natural movement of her torso, thus keeping the blade at the same angle, but now protecting her left side.

The Three Stances. They were the bread and butter of the Archenland Wardens, elite warriors that had patrolled the borders of their land. During the Golden Age of Narnia, they'd made sure that the forces of Calormen stayed well clear of their borders, but during the times of the Telmarine invasion they'd also guarded their northern borders as well. Oreius, like his father before him, had been well-versed in their techniques, and as such was more than able to pass them on to Susan, who while being extremely reluctant to learn them to begin with had taken to them like a fish to water.

Flowing from stance to stance, she began to throw attacks in her deadly dance. Some were swift and quick, others took advantage of the sword's weight - or rather should have, but this blade was _much_ too light and so the effect was lost - to deliver devastating blows, and even some attacks abandoned any type of form, becoming wild and unpredictable. What they all had in common, however, was in one way or another, they used each part of her sword to its fullest potential; from the length of the sword in order to catch an enemy off-guard that might have believed themselves out of range, to the protective crossguard as an implement of death by using it to stab at enemies at closer range, or even by using the hilt and crossguard as an impromptu ax or blunt weapon by grabbing the sword from the naked blade. The longsword was a simple blade, yes - but it was also an incredibly versatile weapon, with incredible potential in the hands of someone who knew it well.

Plenty of Orc had found that out the hard way.

The minutes passed in this dance. As the sun went down, the sky turning to dusk and then shifting to a deep night that shined with the light of innumerable stars, Susan continued to practice. Ducking, dodging, pretending to parry incoming blows and picturing the visages of snarling orcs and screeching goblins as they attacked, Susan's dance was a flurry of violence and grace-

A flash of fiery pain. Susan yelped, her sword nearly falling out of her hand as the flesh under the ring (she refused to call it _her_ ring in her mind) began to hiss from the heat coming off of the bronze band. Susan grit her teeth against the pain, snarling in tune with the suddenly pulsing amethyst; it was the first time that the ring had made a reaction of any kind since it had reshaped itself for her hand back in the Deadlands.

Why now? She'd been in Middle Earth for three years now; why was it now that the band became alive? What was it that changed?

Surprisingly, she got an answer. Her eyes glazed over as a vision took over her mind; amidst a wall of a raging inferno, was the image of a blue-and-red fiery eye, snapping and gazing into her soul but not _seeing_ her, for there was something protecting her, keeping her safe from prying eyes, or rather the Ever-Seeking Eye-

The flames disappeared. Suddenly, Susan was speeding away from Fornost, covering miles and miles of distance in a single instant; hills, grass plains, forests, a single town, lakes and rivers all rushed by in an instant yet there was a distinct path to all of it. Finally, the images slowed down, ending at the image of a place with rolling green hills and what looked like houses built into them, where a child-like people lived in merry happiness.

 _ **Shire.**_ The voice was terrible, burning the word in her mind. It was evil in its nature, and no magic or guile would disguise the malice and desire to dominate and destroy that dripped from its every syllable. If it had been only the one word, it would've been too many, but it was followed by a second. _**Baggins.**_

And with a _snap_ , the vision ended, and Susan's eyes rolled back into her head as she fell to the ground in a dead faint.

 **...ooOoo…**

It was the light of the new day that woke Susan from her unwilling slumber. The rays of the new dawn sent stabs of agony through her eyes and into brain, stirring her from the unrest she had just undergone; for it was not sleep but rather forced unconsciousness plagued with the screams of the Wraithworld, which was akin to a second plane that mirrored the conscious world but that had no light, only shadows and darkness and the screams of those caught within, their minds and souls scattered to the wind in a storm of endless agony.

Groaning, Susan rolled onto her side, keeping her eyes closed. Immediately, a warmth that she had not noticed disappeared, and she shivered violently, still suffering from the effects of her forced vision. And speaking of effects…

A few minutes later, Susan was wiping her mouth of any bile with one of the cleaning rags she used to oil her sword. Now able to open her eyes without feeling like blunt needles were being stabbed through them (though she was still in quite a bit of pain), she looked around, searching for her sword. She found it next to a still-resting Destrier, the horse having laid down next to her at some point during the night to give her warmth and shelter. Feeling no small amount of love and affection for her horse, she swore then and there to give the animal as many oats as he wanted no matter what - within reason.

Picking up her sword, she quickly moved over to her camp, seeking water and the salted meat that was stored there. The hearth was cold and unlit, having forgotten to light it before the vision, and so Susan set to work, burying her mind with the menial tasks in order to not think about the vision itself. When the fire was set and the meat was cooking, she plopped herself down on the ground, pulled a whetstone from one of the saddlebags close and began to sharpen her sword.

Unfortunately, her mind began to wander.

"Just what in the bloody hell was _that_?" Susan snapped out loud, breaking the silence. No answer came, of course; it was just as well, else she'd be committed to whatever equivalent of a mental institute available in Middle Earth.

Probably the gallows.

Shaking her head from her sudden ire, Susan set her sword aside and reached for the meal in front of her; the deer meat was cooked black, burnt completely to the point of almost charcoal. Anyone with a modicum of cooking ability would've taken a single glance at the meat and cooked their own meal. Not that it mattered to Susan; when she bit into it, it tasted like ash, and had it been cooked properly it would've still tasted so. It was part of the cursed life she lived; at the very least, this way she wouldn't get her hopes up that the food would have an _actual_ taste.

It was ironic, really. The power of the ring gave her the ability to function without need of sleep or sustenance, but when Lord Elrond had examined her they realized that her body was still completely functional.

" _You must not give that ring more reason to feed its power into you. Starve yourself, and the ring will take away your hunger. Bleed, and it will seal your wounds. Thirst, and it shall be your water. The more you give in to its power, the more it will corrupt your form, and eventually you will find yourself donning the mask and cloak of the Ringwraith. The more you tie yourself to your mortality, then the stronger you will be against its temptations._

" _It will do everything in its power to tempt you. Your meals taste as ash, the wines turn sour on your tongue, even the waters have lost their vitality - though it seems that the Lembas bread does not follow this rule. All of this is so that you turn away from your mortality, so that you give in to its temptations and become its willing slave. Kept yourself fed, eat, sleep regularly, and you will have the strength of will to continue your journey. Fall to darkness - and you will_ never _climb out._ "

Yes, how lovely. Well, doctors orders and all that. Susan shook her head, taking another bite of burnt meat while ignoring the small voice in her head that pointed out that her reasoning for the burning of the meat had nothing to do with the taste of the meal and everything with her lack of culinary skills. She gave a longing glance at one of the saddlebags, knowing that she had to save the Lembas bread within for her upcoming journey.

She frowned; her plans had definitely changed. Whether it was because of her vision, the ring's influence, or her previous journey in search of answers, she'd have to travel to this Shire (and why did that sound so familiar, she wondered) and follow the path that had just opened up to her. And it would have to be soon as well; she had the feeling that whatever it was that had summoned her to that place with the green hills, there would be a limited time frame to search for answers.

Not that she _really_ wanted to go after something that had been given to her by the ring. Still, dubious answers were better than none at all. With that in mind, she pulled out a map from her saddlebags and spread it on the back of the saddle itself (it was much cleaner than putting it on the ground). Her vision had started with Fornost, but it detailed a path through places that she had never been at, landmarks that she had never seen nor visited. Still, if the vision was accurate… she traced a path south from Fornost with her finger. Wherever this… Shire or Baggins place was, she had quite the journey ahead of her. Definitely more than a day's ride.

Still, at least she had an idea. Judging from the landmarks in her vision, and the ones that she could see from her current vantage point, she'd have to follow the Old Road south for as much as she could before braving the wilderness; after which she'd hopefully find herself in the forest surrounding the single village she'd seen in her vision. Consulting the map revealed it to be labeled as Bree; she tried to remember if the name had come up in any of her conversations with the elves two years ago, but came up with nothing.

No matter. As it turned out, Bree sat on a very important crossroads - the Great East Road and the Greenway. The Greenway was the long road stretching from South to North, connecting Gondor with Arnor, while the Great East Road stretched from West to East, beginning and emerging out of Mirkwood across the Misty Mountains west through Rivendell and towards the Grey Havens, the elven port-

Well now. Susan peered closer at the map, wondering how she'd missed it. The Great East Road met up with the Greenway at Bree, but then it pressed on to the Grey Havens by crossing into a land labeled as The Shire. At least now she knew where she had to go - hopefully _Baggins_ would prove as easy… but no, there was nothing on the map labeled as such. She _did_ however, now remember where she'd heard the name before - The Shire was the land inhabited by the short-statured Hobbits. Baggins was probably the name of either a village or even that of a particular Hobbit.

Susan shrugged, rolling up the map. Better to head out as soon as she could then; taking another bite of ashen meat, she stored the map back in her saddlebags with her free hand. Within a few more minutes, she had the entire camp cleared up and was more than ready to depart. Her headache had finally cleared completely, the ring returning to its inert state. She frowned, glancing down at it. After a second of pondering, her eyes widened in realization and she called Destrier over with a sharp whistle.

With a whinny, the animal stood from where it was resting and hurried over to Susan.

"Come!" she said, quickly tacking up the horse and securing it all with practiced hands. "I'm such a fool," she snapped at herself as she struggled with a buckle. "That vision - it was given to me by the ring! And there's eight other rings of these, so it's _obvious_ that I wasn't the only one to get that vision!" She moved over to Destrier's head and making sure that the hackamore the animal was wearing was secure.

Holding onto the sides of Destrier's head, she looked into his eyes. "We will need to hurry," she said, "the Nazgûl ride for the Shire. And we need to beat them there."

With that encouraging message, she threw some dirt onto the already-fading fire, picking up her sheathed sword and slinging it onto her back. It was then followed by her trusted bow and quiver, all of it secured by the strap that crossed her chest. With a single step, she mounted Destrier, turning him to the south.

"Ride, Destrier," she encouraged, whipping the reins. "Ride like the wind is chasing us!"

With an exuberant neigh, Destrier took off at a dead sprint onto the Greenway road.

 **...ooOoo…**

 **I hate this chapter. I really, really do. But then I cut out half of it, and became satisfied. So, you get a smaller chapter, yes, but better less content than no content at all. I'll start working on the next one based off of what I cut out, so it shouldn't take me as long to get that out as this did.**

 **Once again, thank you for your support.**


	5. 4: The Hunt, Ended

… **ooOoo…**

 _Through Fire and Shadow_

Chapter 4 – The Hunt, Ended

When she'd set out of Fornost, the sun had finished its rise into the sky; by the time she'd followed the Greenway all the way to Bree, the moon had finished its climb and was well settled in the night sky. Bree, as it turned out, was rather lackluster overall, though that was to be expected with the historic abandonment of Arnor and Eriador. The Greenway's ancient paved stones were replaced with muddy tracks that were cut with the lines of wagons amidst patches of green grass, showing the signs of heavy traffic while also revealing the reason for its name. And yet, when Susan approached the west gate of Bree - for there was no north gate and so Susan had been forced to circle around the wall surrounding the village - there was none to be seen; indeed, the entire area looked horribly desolate and near-abandoned.

Trotting Destrier up to the gate, she found it to be shut, but at the door of the lodge beyond it, there was a man sitting. He jumped up and fetched a lantern and looked over the gate at her in surprise, before narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

"What do you want, and where do you come from?"

Susan, keeping her hood up, spoke, "I am a Ranger of Arnor, seeking the warmth of a fire and the shelter of a warm bed."

The gatekeeper drew back in surprise. "A Watcher," he muttered softly, as if speaking to himself, "and a woman no less." He stared at her darkly for a moment, before speaking to her once more, "'tis rare that one of the Watcher women comes to these gates. Nay, it never happens. Might I ask what your business is?"

"My business is my own, Gatekeeper. But I acknowledge your noble duty, and salute you so; for it is your right to ask the questions after dusk has ended and night has fallen. I am the Lady Ambar," she added, giving the Sindarin word for _world_ as her name and pronouncing it as _áhmbar_. She raised her hands and lowered her hood; as expected, upon seeing her face the Gatekeeper's eyes widened further. Susan gave him a gentle smile, and the poor man began to blush furiously. "I am cold on this night, and my horse needs rest. Pray tell, where can I find shelter?"

It took a few seconds, but the gatekeeper finally answered. "Er- g-go on to _The Prancing Pony_ , there will be more than warm beds there; a warm meal, a roaring fire, and plenty of ale, if that's your fancy, My Lady!" The man smiled in what, perhaps he thought, was a winningly manner, but made no move to open the gate.

After a few seconds of silence, Susan raised a fine eyebrow. "It will be rather difficult for me to find this inn if you fail to open the gate…"

The red glow of the man's intensified blush could be practically felt. Properly embarrassed now, the gatekeeper hurried to open the gate and let her pass. She gave him another smile, after passing through the gate slung herself off of Destrier.

"I thank you," she said to the gatekeeper.

"N-no thanks necessary, My Lady," he replied. "Just doing my job. Speaking of, you'll find maybe that more folk than old Harry at the gate will be asking you questions. There's queer folk about. If you go on to The Pony, you'll find you're not the only guest."

Taking note of this, Susan gave him another nod and without another word continued on, raising up her hood as she did so. Behind her, she heard the man wish her a good night. Following the road, she walked on up a gentle slope, passing a few detached houses, and after a few minutes drew up outside the inn.

Even from the outside the inn looked to be a pleasant house. It had a front on the road, and two wings running back on land partly cut out of the lower slopes of the hill, so that at the rear the second-floor windows were level with the ground. There was a wide arch leading to a courtyard between the two wings, and on the left under the arch there was a large doorway reached by a few broad steps. The door was open and light streamed out of it. Above the arch there was a lamp, and beneath it swung a large signboard: a fat white pony reared up on its hind legs. Over the door was painted in white letters: _The Prancing Pony_ by Barliman Butterbur. Many of the lower windows showed lights behind thick curtains.

Leading Destrier through the arch, she left her horse standing in the courtyard. She gave him a gentle pat on the nose. "Thank you, my friend," she said, kissing his soft nose. "You did very well today."

She then turned and walked up the steps to the open door; someone began singing a merry song inside, and many cheerful voices joined loudly in the chorus. As she crossed the threshold almost immediately she nearly bumped into a short fat man with a bald head and a red face. He had a white apron on, and was bustling out of one door and in through another, carrying a tray laden with full mugs.

"Sorry," Susan apologized immediately.

"Be right with you in a mo'!" shouted the man over his shoulder, and vanished into a cacophony of voices and a cloud of smoke. In a moment he was out again, wiping his hands on his apron. "Good evening, good sir!" he said, mistaking her for a man. "What may you be wanting?"

"A room for the night, and stabling for my horse," she answered. "You must be Mr. Butterbur."

The barkeep drew back, and Susan internally sighed at what she already knew was coming. "A woman? You must be a Ranger; you're the only ones that'll let a woman near a blade. Nasty business, that; but I suppose you must not have much a choice, wandering the wilderness as you do. Aye, Butterbur's my name. Barliman Butterbur, at your service! May I ask your name, Lady?"

"I am the Lady Ambar," was all Susan said.

"Well met, my lady. I'm run off my feet; but I'll see what I can do for you. We don't often get Rangers passing through nowadays, and I should be sorry not to make you welcome. But there is such a crowd already in the house tonight as there hasn't been for long enough. It never rains but it pours, we say in Bree.

"Hi! Bob!" he shouted. "Where are you, you woolly-footed slowcoach? Bob!"

"On my way, sir!" A cheery-looking hobbit bobbed out of a door, and catching sight of Susan, stopped short and stared at her with great interest.

"Take the Lady's horse and stable it somehow; make the space, find the room." Bob trotted off with a grin.

"Well now, what was I going to say?" said Mr. Butterbur, tapping his forehead. "One thing drives out another, so to speak. I'm that busy tonight, my head is going round. There's a party that came up the Greenway from down South last night – and that was strange enough to begin with. Then there's a travelling company of dwarves going West come in this evening - stranger still that they'll be staying a few nights. And now there's you. If you weren't alone, I doubt if we could house you. But we've got a room or two in the north wing that were made special for travelling Ladies, when this place was built - right next to the hobbit rooms. Similarly built, they are; on the ground floor, round windows and all. I hope you'll be comfortable. You'll be wanting supper, I don't doubt. As soon as may be. This way now!"

He led her a short way down a passage, and opened a door. "Here is a nice little parlor!" he said. "I hope it will suit. Excuse me now. I'm that busy. No time for talking. I must be trotting. It's hard work for two legs, but I don't get thinner. I'll look in again later. If you want anything, ring the hand-bell, and Nob will come. If he don't come, ring and shout!"

Off he went at last, and left them feeling rather bemused; he seemed capable of an endless stream of talk, however busy he might be. Looking around, Susan found herself in a small and cozy room. There was a bit of bright fire burning on the hearth, and in front of it were some low and comfortable chairs. In the center of the room was a round table, already spread with a white cloth, and on it was a large hand-bell. But Nob, the hobbit servant, came bustling in long before she even thought of ringing. He brought candles and a tray full of plates.

"Will you be wanting anything to drink, my Lady?" he asked. "And shall I show you the bedroom, while your supper is got ready?"

"Please do," said Susan. "Though perhaps could I bother you for a bath to be drawn first? Long have I been on the road, and I prefer to eat clean, without the filth of my travels spoiling my meal."

Perhaps it was a bit… arrogant of her to ask, but she _had_ been a Queen once.

"Of course! Let me show you the washroom…"

Nearly thirty minutes later, Susan was finishing up from her bath, redressing in clean clothes before exiting the washroom and into the bedroom. Hearing voices in the parlor, she tensed momentarily before recognizing them as Butterbur and Nob. Walking into the parlor revealed that a good supper had been laid on the table; there was hot soup, cold meats, a blackberry tart, new loaves of bread, slabs of butter, and half a ripe cheese: good plain food, as good as any home in England could've prepared.

The landlord hovered round for a little, and then prepared to leave her. "I don't know whether you would care to join the company, when you have supped," he said, standing at the door. "Perhaps you would rather go to your bed. Still the company would be very pleased to welcome you, if you had a mind. We don't get Outsiders – travelers from the north, I should say, begging your pardon – often; and we like to hear a bit of news, or any story or song you may have in mind. But as you please! Ring the bell, if you lack anything!"

And with that, Susan was left alone. She ate quickly, tasting nothing but pretending that it was bean soup that she was drinking, that it was fresh bread she was biting, that it was the sweetness of blackberry she was tasting. Once supped, she deliberated joining the group outside but quickly decided against it; she needed to depart for the Shire as early as possible the next day, and besides, she was in no mood to be fielding wandering hands and derogatory stares and words. Her status as a woman, regardless of the sword she wore on her back, meant that she was seen as lesser than most in these parts. Though it wasn't as bad in the north as it was in south, or so she was told; Rohirrim women weren't even allowed to _touch_ a blade, much less have any form of rights. Here in the north, life was hard, and everyone had to help, regardless of whether you had an organ hanging between your legs or not. But there was still a notable difference in how men treated her compared to the men of America or even England; here, if a man touched her she was well within her rights to stick a blade in his gut, whereas over there... well. Suffice to say that Susan was a proud woman that believed in her rights and the defense of such, damned the consequences!

Susan shook her head, her decision made. Blowing out the candles but leaving the fire on the hearth lit, she entered her rented room; as she prepared for bed, her sword rested on the floor next to it, her bow resting against the wall in one of the corners. She set her knife under her pillow, and after blowing out the single candle in the room, fell asleep.

Her dreams were plagued with nightmares of fiery eyes and screaming wraiths.

 **...ooOoo…**

The next day, she arose with the dawn. After washing her face and hands, she went out into the halls, searching for the kitchen or the innkeep, whichever came first. As it turned out it was the latter, and after requesting for some breakfast she returned to her room. Nob, once more, was the one who brought her food, a full English breakfast (though she doubted that it was called as such). While the meal was set, she got directions to The Shire from Nob, and after being left alone she ate quickly; her cloak back on, the hood raised to cover her features, and her weapons back on her person, she departed the room.

Within the hour she was back on the road with Destrier, though instead of the Greenway, it was the Great East Road she now travelled. Her saddlebags had been replenished with purchased foods from Bree, though she doubted that she would need them; it would take the entire day's travel to reach the Shire, as the distance between there and Bree was slightly more than the distance she'd rode between Bree and Fornost. There would be no rest for her nor Destrier - though fortunately, he was a hardy horse and could run for days without tiring. Still, no need for unnecessary punishment on her faithful companion, hence the previous night's rest.

And yes, the bath had _quite_ a bit to do with it all.

Still, she was on the road again, and would hopefully reach the Shire before the Ringwraiths did. Truthfully, she had no idea as to whether or not she'd encounter them; her gut, however, rolled with a tension that felt akin to when she rode with Lucy on Aslan to the White Witch's castle, all those years ago.

Unnoticed, the sun raised itself to midpoint in the sky and was beginning its descent when Susan had reached Buckland. A quick stop there in the Hobbit-populated village was made; Susan pulled up next to a stall placed right next to the road that was manned by a single Hobbit. The tiny humanoid peered up at Susan with wide eyes.

"Greetings, stranger!" Susan called down, for the top of the Hobbit's head barely reached Destrier's underside and she had to account for the extra height from riding the horse. "I need to get to The Shire - am I on the right road?"

The Hobbit gave her a queer look. "Well that's a funny question! You're already in The Shire!"

In her mind, Susan gave a self-deprecating groan of embarrassment; of course she was in the Shire already. Leave it to her to get that turned around somehow.

"I see," said Susan, showing none of her frustration. "Mayhap you could still assist me. Does the name Baggins sound familiar?"

The queer look intensified. "Aye, they live in Hobbiton. Rather strange bunch, they are. Odd you should ask though…"

The sudden pallor on the Hobbit's face made Susan feel cold inside. "Have there been others passing through here?" she asked.

"Aye, my Lady; a Black Rider was sighted a couple of nights ago in Hobbiton itself. Searching for the Baggins, they were; that family is only trouble. Strange Folk…"

 _I'm too late._ Paling, Susan quickly spurred Destrier on. "Thank you, friend! Aslan guide you!" she called down. "Yah!"

Leaving behind the gaping Hobbit, she urged Destrier on; before they travelled at a comfortable run, but now it was a furious and near-desperate sprint. Whatever - or rather, _whoever_ \- it was that the Nazgûl were searching for - _she would not let them succeed at their mission._ Whatever it took, she would chase the Nazgûl and once more, stand between them and their prey.

Onwards she rode. Eventually, after an hour or so she reached Hobbiton - and almost immediately she _knew_ that there was another of the Nine in the area. Eight. Whatever.

Amidst a gentle forest with healthy green grasses and rolling hills, Susan emerged. Her dark green cloak covering her completely, she would have passed unnoticed into Hobbiton - and wasn't a quaint little place, with the houses built into the hills like that! – but for whatever reason, curious Hobbit eyes tracked her as she glanced around, looking for the Nazgûl whose presence she felt.

But no, there was nothing. No Black Riders shooting arrows at her from the darkness, no looming darkness other than the setting sun, no Khamûl with his horned helmet, like that robed figure she could see out of the corner of her eye and holding a ghostly mace-

Wait. Ghostly mace?

Susan's head whipped around, barely catching the hint of a cloak sliding around the corner of a hedge wall belonging to the garden of one of the Hobbits. She didn't even think, quickly steering Destrier in the direction of the individual she'd seen, one hand on the sword on her back. When she rounded the corner however, there was no one there; only more houses and a view to one particular hill with a house built into it.

"You lost, stranger?"

Susan started, looking down at the inquiry. A young hobbit was staring up at her, blonde curls framing a pretty face and rosy cheeks. Susan blinked, releasing her grip on her sword, and relaxed minutely.

"I'm afraid I am," she admitted, before climbing down from Destrier. Now standing in front of the Hobbit, she smiled down at her. "I was told to search for someone named Baggins, here in the Shire. I don't suppose you could point me-? Oh, where are my manners; I am Ambar, of the land of Arnor."

"Ooh! A Ranger! How interesting! I'm Rosy, of the Shire, I guess." Clapping her hands, Rosy then pointed at the house that Susan had noticed earlier. "You'll be looking for Baggins there; old Bilbo Baggins used to live there before he disappeared… seventeen years ago? Sometime around that. His nephew, Frodo, lives there now. Though he hasn't been seen in a few days, now that I think about it."

Susan glanced at the house, now concerned that the person she'd seen was in the house. "It's abandoned?" she asked.

Rosy shrugged. "Not really. All the doors and windows are locked, according to the neighbors; nosey lot they are. It simply seems as if Mr. Frodo just up and left for no reason; story goes that his uncle Bilbo did the same thing years ago. Something about a mountain and a company of dwarves. So, he'll probably be back. Couldn't tell you when though."

Susan nodded, her eyes not having left the house. "I thank you, Rosy. You've helped quite a bit." Indeed she had. If the Black Riders had found this Frodo Baggins, the house would be ransacked, broken into, _anything._ She'd seen the results of how the Nazgûl operated in Fornost, she knew they wouldn't have held back here. That there was nothing of the sort meant that the Black Riders had tracked Frodo _away_ from The Shire, and that the hobbit had left the area beforehand. Whether that was from a forewarning or simple chance, she knew not.

Well then. This lead just became more complicated. Returning her gaze to Rosy, she said, "I was told that I'm not the first to pass by asking for Baggins."

The girl shook her head. "Riders, in black. They passed through two nights ago, though fortunately they didn't stay. It was a dark night. I don't think anybody was in the streets that night."

Susan began to ask, "Do you know where they…?" but Rosy was already shaking her head. Susan nodded. "Thank you, regardless. You've been a great help."

"Oh, it's nothing but a pleasure!" Rosy then looked like she wanted to add something, but kept silent.

Susan gave her a soft smile. "Was there something else?"

"Oh! Well, it's more of a favor, really… see, a-a _friend_ of mine, Samwise Gamgee – he disappeared along with Mr. Frodo. I suppose I'm just worried, see…"

Susan's smile became understanding. "I shall keep an eye out," she said, mounting Destrier once more.

Rosy nodded her head in thanks. "I thank you, My Lady. Though you don't really have to-" _SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!_

The Nazgûl's screech hadn't ended when Susan finished drawing her bow. "Rosy, get inside! And tell anyone you see to do the same!" Not looking to see if the hobbit listened, she urged Destrier to run with her bow, sending the horse into a dead sprint towards the Black Rider's call.

Never had she heard such a chilling sound. Not once. But somehow, she _understood_ it, she _knew_ that it carried a message. She didn't truly _know_ what that message was, but she did know that it was a call, like a Hunter announcing they'd found their prey. With that in mind, she urged Destrier to run, and quickly rushed through the Hobbiton houses; within less than a minute, she had abandoned the well-travelled road of Hobbiton to go straight into the forest, pursuit of the ghastly screech her only objective.

Of course, there _was_ the possibility that the Nazgûl knew that she was here and were baiting her into a trap, but to hell with it; she was tired of this chase. It was something that had consumed her for the past few months, regardless of the fact that she was the only one doing the chasing for those months. She'd been searching for answers amongst the ghosts of eras past, and this was the first opportunity for which she could actually _find_ some.

Into the forest she went, and it was there where the ambush was sprung. Susan heard, rather than saw, the arrow coming; with a quick lean backwards and a snap of her arm she caught the shaft aimed at her neck. In the next second, she had thrown herself off of Destrier in a flurry of motion. The horse quickly scampered away while Susan ran in the opposite direction, seeking shelter in the trees. She could not see the Nazgûl, but it could definitely see her, peppering her with arrows that flew _quite_ close to hitting her.

Still, the enemy had lost the element of surprise, and now Susan had a good idea of where her foe was. Putting a tree between her and it, she unslung her treasured bow from her back - the weapon had arrived in Middle Earth with her. Tossing away the Black Rider's arrow, she pulled one of her red-fletched arrows from her ivory quiver and set it on the string - in the next instant, she leaned around the tree and drew back the arrow, aimed quickly, and let loose.

When she heard the agonized screech, she took it as a confirmed strike; lucky as the hit was, she drew some measure of satisfaction regardless. She moved quickly, going from cover to cover in an attempt to close the distance, dodging furious arrows sent in retaliation. So began the game of cat and mouse; deeper and deeper into the forest Susan chased the Nazgûl. Whenever she could, she would try to recover her arrows, but more often than not she would be chased away by the wraith-arrows that her foe was firing at her. Which of course, led to another problem: she would eventually run out of arrows.

Well then. If that was going to be the case, then she might as well use the ones she had left wisely.

Placing her back against a tree – no she didn't know what _kind_ of tree, that wasn't important right now – she took a few deep breaths. All of the wraith arrows had been aimed at her head, and came in flurries of three to five arrows, one after the other. With that in mind, she had an idea of where the arrows _would_ be, and _when_.

With that in mind, she took a moment to mentally count down the amount of time between the arrows. Then, after a moment's hesitation, she dove from out of cover, bowstring drawn with two arrows on the string. Upon a quick release of the two arrows, she charged forwards, knowing without having to look that one arrow would intercept one of her foe's arrows while the other flew past and at where she _thought_ her quarry might be. As she charged she drew two more arrows from her quiver, setting them to the string and releasing them quickly after a quick aim at her now-revealed target; while she'd missed her first trick shot, the Nazgûl had been startled out of his position.

Both of her arrows sunk into the Nazgûl's cloak with dull _thunk_ -like sounds, and Susan felt no small measure of satisfaction at the Ringwraith's angry screech. It was short-lived; she quickly closed the distance between herself and the Nazgûl, drawing her sword and tossing away her bow, and it was with an angry vengeance that she quickly set upon it with her blade.

And this was where she quickly realized that as good as the Nazgûl as was with the bow, it had been absolutely _no_ indication as to how good it was with the sword.

This Nazgûl quickly put Khamûl to shame. Susan's only experience with fighting these creatures of the dark was the Claymore- and Mace-wielding demon, and it was a style that focused on wide sweeps meant to overwhelm the enemy with sheer strength. _This_ Ringwraith fielded a hand-and-a-half blade, and it _knew_ how to use it well. It was taking all of Susan's skill with her longsword to keep this foe at bay.

But having said that… she was also _enjoying_ it. With Khamûl, there was desperation, fear, fierce protectiveness. Pride that she had rediscovered what it meant to be a Queen. Here, with this Nazgûl… well, she had beaten a Ringwraith before, taken its ring for her own, its curse fueling her and tethering her to life. She had truly slain a Ringwraith and lived to tell the tale; it seemed logical that she could perhaps repeat the feat. But without the fear of failure, the rush of adrenaline was very present.

And that made all the difference. The exhilaration of fighting a tough foe was fueling her strength, and her mind was sharp with the threat of death. With every clang, every vibration sent up her arm, with every step taken and every jump backwards, Susan found joy in the fight, the giddiness building up in her chest until suddenly building up and bursting out in the form of a laugh.

Startled, the Nazgûl paused, even taking a couple of steps back. " _You laugh in the face of your death?_ " it asked.

Susan gave it a fierce grin. "Nay, fiend. I find joy in the art of battle, in the flow of the fight. I am a Warrior Queen; it is only right that I should find joy in fighting an opponent as strong as yourself." She pointed her sword at the Ringwraith, a foe dressed in their traditional black cloak with armored clawed gauntlets and a hood covering its face. "I shall enjoy destroying you, and parting you of the source of your strength."

Through his armored glove, Susan saw his left hand clench involuntarily; it was there where this Ringwraith's ring was. Her eyes flicked up to where she imagined its face to be; she smirked at the shadows, conveying the silent message: _I know your weakness._

And unexpectedly, the Ringwraith chuckled. " _How little you presume to know, my Queen,_ " it said. It darted forward in a burst of black-green smoke, but Susan expected the move; Khamûl had been capable of that near-instant movement as well. She caught the Nazgûl's sword with the crossguard of her own, then caught the knife it had tried to jam into her ribs with her free hand. In that deadlock they remained, arms trembling, both pushing and trying to overwhelm the other.

The Ringwraith pushed its head closer. Even this close, her eyes could not pierce the shadows that the hood had within. " _You are but ashes in these winds, pretender. You wear a Ring, but do not accept its power._ " In its next words, Susan could hear a grin. " _I too, was like you once._ "

Susan grit her teeth, pushing her response through a clenched jaw, "Oh, is that so? I suppose that cloak could cover up a pair of tits-!"

Out of nowhere, her knee jerked up as she simultaneously fell backwards. Her foot catching him between the legs, she flipped the Nazgûl up and over her while landing on her back; she quickly got back up, just in time to see the Ringwraith stand up as well, with no sign of any pain. "Well, I suppose there _could_ be truth to your statement…"

Once again, the wraith chuckled. " _A Warrior Queen with a mouth,_ " it said, " _A strange combination._ "

Suddenly, it looked to the west, at a setting sun that was nearing the end of its daytime journey. " _The day ends, the long night begins. Daylight breaking before the shadows, darkness pushed back by blinding light; a cycle of harmony, of life, of death. But in all of it, a precious balance. As the light fades, a star shines bright against the dark; small, flickering, an ember of hope…_ "

Susan blinked.

…what?

The Ringwraith suddenly sheathed its sword. What? " _You have the strength to resist the temptation of the Ring you wear. We have felt its presence wandering these lands, but cannot track you. You are strong, Queen; I hope you are able to keep that strength. That you are able to delay your fall._ " It pointed to the East, towards Bree. " _The answers you seek are to the East. The One Ring will call to you, as it does us. Find the Hobbits. Protect them from us, even myself. We are Nine; seven are willing servants. You and I are but slaves to its power; but even slaves can rebel._ "

The Ringwraith turned its back to her, leaving her dumbfounded and confused. " _Perhaps, Queen, you are the answer to this long war. It would be such a shame if you were to fail._ "

And with that, the Nazgûl vanished into shadows.

…

…

… _what?_

…

…

…fucking _what!?_

… **ooOoo…**

As confused as Susan was, she wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. With a strong whistle she summoned Destrier and began to ride through the forest in the direction that the Nazgûl had pointed out. The situation had changed drastically, but not in a way that affected the immediate outcome. For whatever reason that the Lone Ringwraith had decided to act upon, it did not change the fact that Susan needed to prevent the Ringwraiths from capturing those Hobbits. And it was _plural_ , not singular; Mr. Frodo Baggins for one, perhaps Samwise Gamgee, based on what Rosy the Hobbit had mentioned.

Because of _course_ it couldn't be a single Hobbit. And of _course_ it came down to another bloody ring. As if the one she was wearing wasn't enough of a problem!

The fact that this new ring had been referred to as the _One Ring_ was another concern but one for another time. She'd done the research, read the tomes and their ancient script in the library of Rivendell – she knew the legend, she knew how many rings there were supposed to be.

 _Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky._ The three rings gifted to the Elves; hidden from sight, these were free of the taint of Sauron as they had been forged by Celebrimbor without the Dark Lord's input.

 _Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone._ These, fortunately, had been either lost to history or recovered by Sauron. The last of the seven rings was confirmed to have last been held by Thrór, King of Durin's Folk, the son of Dáin I, the father of Thráin II, and the grandfather of Thorin II Oakenshield himself. Thrór had been King of Erebor when the Lonely Mountain had been conquered by the Dragon Smaug in pursuit of the amassed wealth of the Dwarves; after he and his family had fled Erebor to settle in Dunland, the last reported sighting of the Dwarven King was when he ventured on his own into the mines of Moria, which by then had been conquered by Azog. Thus, it was presumed that the Seventh Ring of the Dwarves was lost in Moria.

 _Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die_. These were the easiest: The Ringwraiths. Or rather, the Eight Ringwraiths and Susan herself. Given to Men as they were the easiest to corrupt, the faintest of heart, the weakest in the face of temptation. A glint of orange made her glance at the ring on her finger, the bronze shining one last time as the sun finally set and darkness surrounded her, a darkness akin to the figure she could see in the amethyst of the ring-

Susan's eyes widened as she turned to the left, her sword slashing at an enemy that wasn't there. Pulling Destrier to a stop, she glanced around quickly, searching for the quarry she could swear she had seen. But there was nothing, nothing but an empty forest with a haunting road winding through it and her thoughts running amok. Unbidden, her mind returned to the quest at hand and the rings that haunted it:

 _Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,_

 _Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,_

 _Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,_

 _One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne_

 _In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie._

 _One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,_

 _One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them_

 _In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie._

Upon finishing her mental recital, there was a sudden tug on her conscious, as if a string had been pulled in her mind. Susan frowned, letting go of the reigns and putting her hand to her forehead, as if to massage a headache that was not there. Closing her eyes, she focused her mind on the sensation – only to feel the tug once more.

 _Come to me._

Susan's frown deepened, her eyes opening and focusing on the ring on her hand. She didn't think, only looked into the amethyst, understanding that the Call wasn't for her specifically – rather it was more of a broad Call, as if something in the area was summoning all of her ilk.

The One Ring.

The Ring of Sauron himself had appeared once more.

Susan grit her teeth. Now she understood; the One Ring had hidden itself all this time, and now it seemed that it had chosen to come out of hiding by way of the hobbits that she was seeking. The Lone Ringwraith had said that they were searching for it; she couldn't let them find the Hobbits, and so her quest became critically important.

Which meant answering the Call. She sighed; what an annoyance. She pulled herself out of the saddle and walked toward Destrier's head; while speed was of the essence, she was a Ranger of Arnor and thus tracked better from the ground rather than horseback. She looked at Destrier in the eye, and told him one word:

" _Afad_." Follow.

With that, she turned around and ran, her sword in hand. Eyes on the ground, ears open to her surroundings, mind focused on the Call, she ran. Further in and deeper into the forest she ran, searching for her quarry. 'Twas an hour into her search that she first found something promising – a set of tracks, horse and man, off of the side of a farmer's road. Slowing, she stopped and studied the tracks – both were deep, and the Man's were sharp on the tips, which meant he'd been armored. It also seemed as though he'd been kneeling upon the edge of the road, where the dirt suddenly dropped off. Susan kneeled in the same spot, grabbing some of the dirt and bringing it to her nose.

The filthy tang of undeath permeated the earth. A glance down towards the drop had her release the earth as she jumped down into a hollow created by nature itself. Inside of the hollow, pressed into the dirt were the indents of four small-shaped people; four sets of bare feet that were disproportionately larger than the body size of their owners would suggest led away from the hollow.

Four hobbits, who'd hidden from a Ringwraith that was _very_ close on their tail.

Thinking quickly, she jumped back onto the road and grabbed her beloved Horn from where it was tied to Destrier's saddle.

"Go, run back to Rivendell, run back to Elrond. Go!" She then slapped the horse on the rump, the animal bursting into a run; with four hobbits and herself, Destrier would be of no help here, but if she ever needed him, she could call the horse to her with her hunting horn – which reminded her that her precious Horn did not appear in Middle Earth with her. A pang of sadness struck her heart at the thought, which she quickly shook off as she ran in the direction the four Hobbits had taken, praying to Aslan that she'd make it in time. Fortunately for her, the tracks made by the hobbits were easy to follow – leaves upturned there, branches broken here, dirt moved everywhere. A more cynical side of her also thought that the Ringwraiths would have no trouble tracking the hobbits either.

Suddenly, the Ring on her hand flared hot as a loud screech reverberated through the forest. Her ears turned her body towards the sound; it was _much_ closer than she thought it'd be. Alongside the infernal screech of the Nazgûl, she could hear voiced crying out in panic and terror, and she abandoned all sense of stealth as she sprinted.

"-this way! Run!" she heard, and as she climbed over a small hill she first saw the Nazgûl that made the cry upon his horse. In front of him was a lone hobbit, separated from his three companions by the Ringwraith. She ran harder, her legs blurring as the Nazgûl raised its sword, preparing to cut down the hobbit as its horse reared onto its hind legs in threat-

-only to be knocked backwards and off-balance as Susan body-slammed into the animal, her sword finding purchase in the belly of the beast and straight into its heart. With a chocked off scream the animal died instantly, falling onto its back with its rider pinned under its corpse. The Nazgûl screeched in rage, its cry piercing her ears as she pulled her sword out of the horse, only to stab it straight into the shadows casted by the Nazgûl's hood.

The scream cut off instantly. There was a moment of silence in the woods before suddenly, the Ringwraith's body burst into black-green smoke, making Susan leap back with her sword in hand. With an angry screech, the cloud vanished into the sky.

"Is- is it dead?"

Susan glanced at the portly little hobbit whose life she'd saved. "Nay," she said, "they are banished from death. It will return, angrier and filled with the hatred that consumes it." She reached down and held out her hand. "We must move quickly; come with me if you want to live."

The hobbit eyed her distrustfully. "And how do I know I should trust you?" he asked.

Susan smiled; at least he wasn't foolish. "Your name is Frodo Baggins, is it not?" Her smile became a touch softer as his face tightened. "Indeed it is. My name is Ambar, I am a Ranger of Arnor. I'm here to protect you." The hobbit picked himself up, ignoring her hand as he kept eyeing her.

"Did Gandalf send you?" came from behind her. A glance revealed the questioner: one of the three other hobbits had stepped forwards, his blue eyes shadowed by curly brown hair staring worriedly at her with both apprehension, fear and, dare she say it, hope.

"Gandalf?" she asked. "'Tis a name I've not heard in a good while, but there is no way I could forget him. Gandalf the Grey, I can say, claims me a friend, a title I wear with great honor." Indeed, how could she not know the wizard, when it was he who found her and guided her to Rivendell after finding her body in the Trollshaws, the upland woods lying west of the Elven City. Three years it had been since she'd last seen him, but never would she forget that kind smile or those wise and mischievous eyes.

Immediately upon her words, the hobbit relaxed. "Then I too, name you friend," he said with a tense smile. "I am Frodo Baggins. Thank you for saving us." He nodded at the portly hobbit she'd mistaken as Frodo, "That's Samwise Gamgee, but he goes by Sam. Behind me are Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took, Merry and Pippin for short."

Susan smiled at them all. "Greetings," she said, "however, we must save further introductions for later. The Nazgûl surround us; we must not tarry any further. Quickly, we must leave this forest!"

Frodo nodded and pointed to the east. "We must reach Bree in haste," he said.

"Buckleberry Ferry will be our best chance at escaping the Black Riders," said either Merry or Pippin, she didn't know. "Come on then, follow me!"

Together, the group set off. Within minutes, however, Susan could hear the gallop of two horses quickly approaching them. "Two Nazgûl approach," she warned, slowing slightly and looking back into the forest.

"Nazgûl?" questioned Sam between pants.

"The Black Riders," answered Susan, sheathing her sword and pulling her bow from her back. "They are the Nazgûl, servants of Sauron. You will find no quarter with them, and they will never stop pursuing you." Keen eyes caught sight of a single glint of black armor in the darkness, and without a thought or breaking her stride an arrow was flying through the air; a piercing screech and a plume of black-green shadows had her smiling savagely. "They are eight; two have been slain tonight, six remain."

"We're saved!" grinned one of the hobbits, the shortest and youngest looking.

"Shut up Pippin, we're not at the ford yet!" said Meriadoc, Susan now able to place the names to their faces.

"Indeed, we must make haste!" she said, "How much far- _FRODO DUCK!_ "

The hobbit quickly did as she said, the Nazgûl's sword whistling through the air where Frodo's head had just been. Two of Susan's arrows found purchase in the Ringwraith's chest, the bolts piercing through the armor and staying there. Amidst the screeching of the Nazgûl were the yells and screams of fright of the hobbits, Frodo's three companions pulling Frodo back onto a frenzied pace as the second Nazgûl that Susan had heard on horseback made its appearance. This time, Susan was the target, the Queen dodging the Ringwraith's slash with a grimace. Another of her arrows found its mark, this time in the horse's body; the animal screamed in pain, rearing and bucking, its rider trying to get it back under control as Susan dropped her bow and drew her blade in time to parry a blow from the Ringwraith that almost cut Frodo's head off.

Taking advantage that the Nazgûl's guard was open from the parry, Susan gripped her sword with both hands and brought her sword downwards and to the left in a quick slash; upon feeling her blade cut into the armor of her foe she followed through with the momentum of her sword, spinning and bringing it down in a heavy overhead upon the Nazgûl. Predictably, it tried to go for a parrying block with its own sword, but the weight of her blow was too much, the elven steel cutting through her foe's blade and cleaving deep into its shoulder. Stunned, the Nazgûl stood helpless as Susan yanked her sword out and, with a quick spin, decapitated it; the entire body exploded into the now familiar black-green smoke.

By now, the remaining Nazgûl had made its beast recover and was attacking her fully. It charged, swiping at her with its sword and taking full advantage of the range that that gave it. Susan took a few steps back, keeping her sword up in a high guard as the Nazgûl gave her no repose and kept attacking. Soon Susan saw her chance – when the Ringwraith raised its arm for another blow, she stepped forwards, driving her sword into the horse's neck and _pushing_. With a grunt, she cleaved through flesh and bone and ducked under the dying animal, spinning around and cutting the falling Ringwraith in half as it fell.

Flicking her sword once to rid it of the horse's blood, she sheathed it on her back, giving the dead animal a sad glance as she did so. _I am sorry, Creature Dearest._ Without another glance she pressed on after the hobbits, quickly catching up to Frodo who'd lagged behind the other hobbits. Four Nazgûl remained in the night, including the strange one that she had encountered first.

"Come Frodo, we must hurry!" she yelled; the time for stealth had been long abandoned. As the trees began to thin out Susan spotted Sam, Merry and Pippin hop over a wooden fence and onto a dirt road; on the other side of the road was the ferry they sought-

And from both directions of the muddy road came the four aforementioned Ringwraiths, two on each side.

" _Go!_ " she yelled, grabbing Frodo by the tunic and unceremoniously tossing him over the fence. The hobbit stumbled upon landing but Susan put him out of mind, drawing two arrows and firing them at the Nazgûl on her left; one struck true, burying itself in her quarry's shoulder but the other was parried by a drawn blade. The Narnian Queen dropped her bow and drew her sword, putting her back to the river just the other two Nazgûl reached her. She snarled, raising her blade in defense-

Only for a chain to wrap around her sword and literally yank it out of her hands, the blade spinning out of sight into the night. Bewildered, surprised and off-balance from the strong pull Susan was unprepared for the follow-up blow in the form of a second chain that wrapped around her body. The Nazgûl who'd thrown said chain rode onwards, pulling Susan off her feet with a surprised yelp and dragging her away from Buckleberry Ferry.

"Lady Ambar!" yelled one of the hobbits, though she did not recognize the voice.

"Go! Run! Leave me-!" A mouthful of mud to interrupt her desperate scream. _Run away! Flee, for the devils themselves nip at your heels!_

The Nazgûl dragging her turned its horse around, dragging her back. Susan wriggled and strained against the chain tying her up to no avail; the links were simply too strong to be broken. A moment after she was no longer being dragged, and Susan redoubled her attempts at freeing herself.

With a loud crunch that nearly made Susan black out from the pain _something_ was jammed into her shoulder. Susan screeched in agonywhitehotpain as she was pulled up by the sickle jammed there until she was kneeling with her head towards the river; in the harsh moonlight she could see the Ferry had cast away, the four hobbits safe and crossing.

Satisfaction bloomed in her chest; they would be safe, she knew. A pair of armored boots crossed her vision, and her eyes followed them up to the Nazgûl standing over her with its naked sword in its hands. She glared at it in defiance, working her mouth and spitting at the shadows of its hood.

" _So defiant,_ " said the Nazgûl. Somehow, Susan knew that it wasn't the same one she'd encountered in the outskirts of The Shire. " _It matters not._ "

It raised its sword, blade pointing down. "Burn in hell, monster," said Susan, fully at peace with herself. The Nazgûl thrusted-

The sword was buried in her other shoulder up to the hilt, piercing her heart. The last thing Susan heard before dying a second time was the far off screams of the hobbits.

But of course, Susan wore a Ring of Power, and thus was banished from death. And as her body turned into white-green smoke and her spirit fled into the night sky awayawayaway, Susan relished in the expression of surprise and rage on the face of the Ringwraith who'd killed her.

It was only much later that Susan would realize two things: firstly, that her death was by the Witch King's sword. Secondly, that it had been the face of the Man he'd once been what she'd seen, and not the shadows of his hood.

… **ooOoo…**

 **I suppose with the quarantine in effect, I have some free time.**

 **Susan's story continues! She isn't dead.**


End file.
